


Sleight of Hand

by prosciutto



Series: Sleight of Hand [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Families of Choice, Heist, loosely based on six of crows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 16:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 56,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10252178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: They’re still staring each other down when the others shuffle into the room, a collective groan going up at the sight of them at each other’s throats once more.“So,” Raven starts, conversational, “how do we think Clarke is going to murder Bellamy? Discuss.”“Knife to the gut?” Miller muses, tapping a finger against his chin. “She’d want to draw it out.”“She’ll push him off a high-rise.” Monty nods. “Messy, but satisfying.”“I have it on good authority that she’ll disembowel him with nothing but a spoon and sheer willpower,” Clarke cuts in, dry, “but that’s just me.”“You know, if you really wanted to get up close and personal with my body, all you had to do was ask.” Bellamy remarks, lips curling into a satisfied smirk when that pulls a scowl out of her.Or: Notorious criminal prodigy Bellamy Blake has been tasked with a seemingly impossible heist. Luckily enough, he just might have the right crew for it.





	1. Arkadia

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this project for so long that it feels a little surreal to be finally posting it, but here we are! I'm really nervous about posting this- considering this is the first time I'm writing something quite so plot-heavy- but I hope you guys like it. The series also is rather loosely based on the six of crows series, but you don't have to read it to understand anything that happens here. Just take it as your usual heist fic with slowburn, co-leaders bellarke leading the charge. There you go. x

 

**________________________________________________________________________**

**Part I: Arkadia**

The one thing that sets him apart from everyone else is the conspicuous lack of a mask.

It’s ironic, considering his profession. The masks are a cornerstone of Arkadia, a practice borne out of convenience after the city was divvied up and claimed by the numerous gangs plaguing the streets. Moss green for Trikru, seafoam blue for Floukru. Burnt orange for Sankru, and molten amber for Delfikru. It provided identification and anonymity, all at once- a system that the criminals of Arkadia mostly abided to.

Well, unless you’re Bellamy Blake.

After all, you didn’t  _ need  _ a mask when you were notorious; when you were the thing of myth and legend and tales whispered on the streets.  _ Criminal,  _ or  _ hero. Murderer. Silvertongue.  _ The stories took on a different slant everyday, rising and falling like the tides.

If anything, Bellamy was more than aware of his reputation.

It is, in fact, what makes his current predicament so laughable, really; dangling precariously off a ledge, rifle slung over his shoulder haphazardly and arms  _ straining _ with the weight of holding himself up.

Defenseless, and distinctly non-threatening.

“If only they could see their silvertongue now,” he mutters, glaring down at the fraying piece of rope in his hands. Giving it a sharp, experimental tug, he swears when it begins to unravel, feet skidding further down the wall and sending a shower of stones clattering to the ground.

Letting loose yet another vicious swear, he rights himself with a hand against the wall, the other still grasping at the rope. Biting back a wave of sudden dizziness, Bellamy sucks in a deep breath, flexing his toes in his boots to gauge his steadiness. Not  _ great,  _ but holding up well. The best he can hope for, at this point.

Carefully, he removes his hand from the wall, tapping at the device against his ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says bitingly, re-adjusting his grip on the rope, “but does  _ no one  _ here grasp the concept of punctuality anymore?”

A beat, followed by a crackle of static before Monty’s voice fills his ear, “Miller got held up at a checkpoint, but I fixed it. He should be there in about —” a pause, accompanied by the sound of frantic typing, “— two minutes.”

“And by two minutes, do you mean five?” he grumbles, shaking his hair out of his eyes. A fine layer of sweat seems to have accumulated all over his body, which is  _ definitely _ not helping him secure his grip on the rope. A small part of him contemplates shedding the heavy jacket he’s donning, but knowing Miller, the likelihood of him freezing to death first is significantly higher.

The line fills with another wave of static, the voice on the other end dipping significantly before surging back with sudden clarity, “— I can  _ hear  _ you guys bitching about me, you know.”

“Good,” Bellamy manages through gritted teeth, “I meant for you to.”

“If you’re looking for someone to blame, I recommend Raven.” Miller points out, “Considering how it was  _ her  _ grappling hook that nearly did me in five minutes ago.”

He picks out Raven’s indignant scoff before the line is swallowed by a clamor of voices, a sudden gust of wind making his stomach lurch uneasily—

“ _ Enough _ ,” he barks out, shifting carefully so he could get a better grip on the stones, “you guys can go back to bitching and griping about this later.  _ After  _ we get the money.” Then, at the sudden quiet, asks, “Miller, where the fuck are you?”

His voice is muffled when it comes back on, “Working on the door.”

They’re not quite in the clear yet, though he can’t help the rush of satisfaction he feels at the thought of being halfway there. Almost. “Good. Pick up the pace.”

“Telling me that is  _ really _ not going to help me go any faster.”

“Considering I’m dangling along the side of a building with nothing but an old piece of rope to hold me up,” Bellamy snorts, dry, “I think I’m entitled to try every method in my arsenal.”

That earns him a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment on his part. Hopefully, because he’s too busy to respond. The only time Miller has ever failed to respond with a snarky comeback was when he was working, gloved hands working at a lock and mouth full of lockpicks. (Other times mostly involved Monty, but they don’t talk about that.)

He shudders at the next blast of icy, cold wind, ducking his head back into the warm confines of his hood. “Miller, If you don’t get the door open in the next two seconds, I’m damning subtlety to hell and breaking the—”

“Got it,” he interjects, abrupt; the thump of footfalls drawing closer nearly drowning out the rest of his words, “Get ready.”

Chancing a quick peek below him, he breathes out a sigh of relief when the window is yanked open roughly, Miller’s head poking out from it.

“Finally,” he huffs, scaling a few steps down the rope. “Back up, I’m coming in.”

It’s impossible to miss the lift of Miller’s mouth despite the flurries of snow obscuring his vision. “Wow, it’s like you  _ want  _ me to make fun of you.”

He manages one last dirty look before he’s sliding down the length of the rope, feet coming down against the window ledge and swinging himself inwards, rolling into the room fluidly.

Miller pulls the windows shut with a sharp  _ snap  _ as Bellamy rises to his feet, unzipping and shedding his jacket carefully. His shirt is soaked through with sweat, and it takes a certain amount of maneuvering to get his gun back over his shoulder.

“We’re a little off schedule,” he frowns, checking at the watch strapped to his wrist, “so we’re going to have to rectify that. You’re clear on what to do?”

“As clear as most of our plans are,” Miller retorts, tightening his gloves carefully over his wrists, “which is, as you know, pretty fucking murky.”

“Your confidence in me is inspiring, you know that?”

He shakes his head grimly at that, easing the door open a crack. “I question myself about it every day.”

The low hum of voices and surrounding noise comes flooding through the door as Miller opens it wide, peering out surreptitiously. Instinctively, he reaches for the knife stashed in his boot, silently berating himself for having brought the rifle instead of something stealthier. But then again, it had been necessary for the job they had earlier today, and it wasn’t like there was the time to go back to the Dropship to make a switch.

A moment passes before Miller gives the  _ all clear  _ signal, and he can practically  _ feel  _ the tension drop off his shoulders. For now, at least. “Seven minutes.” He says, to Miller’s receding back.

“Seven minutes.” He agrees, before slipping out, his footsteps indistinguishable in the commotion.

Carefully, Bellamy sets at his watch, taking a deep breath to brace himself.  _ Time to get to work. _

The corridor is still empty by the time he emerges, the polished wood floors beneath him creaking under his weight. He didn’t have to strain his ears to make out the bustle coming from downstairs; the rise and fall of people’s voices, the crisp slide of bills through a teller’s fingers. The upper floor- according to the plans procured by Monty- was an office space, though clearly uninhabited at this time of the day.

Inching forward, he tries at the door knob of the next room. It slides open easily in his grip, revealing pretty much the same layout as the room before. A few desks and storage cabinets, peeling wallpaper and outdated desktop computers collecting dust. The only difference was the lack of windows in this one, which gave it an even gloomier cast than the one before. In fact, everything about the bank’s dark wood floors to the silk wallpapers was downright musty.

Retrieving the smoke grenade from his pocket, he bites at the ring, yanking it free before rolling it into the room. It fills with smoke almost instantly, drifting out towards the corridor.  _ One down, three more to go. _

His eyes are stinging by the time he hits the five minute mark, lungs screaming in protest as he hurtles back to the room, closing the door shut behind him and sweeping the towels against the crack of the door with his foot. The fire alarm is set to go off any minute now- his signal to Miller- and he’ll be out of the window—

He freezes at the obnoxious beeping of his watch, leg already half-slung out of the window. Tilting his wrist back, he looks down at the cracked surface. Seven minutes.

And no alarm.

Swearing, he pulls himself back, slamming the window shut before tapping at the device by his ear. “Monty. Any reason why the goddamn alarm isn’t going off?”

A wave of static, making him flinch, before his voice comes into focus, “It’s an old building, so I’m guessing it doesn’t exactly have the most responsive of smoke detectors. Can you set off more of the grenades?”

“I’m out.” He growls, rucking his fingers through his hair frustratedly. The grenades are one of Raven’s specialities, set to decompose almost instantly after they ignited and leaving no trace of having been there in the first place. He hadn’t saw a point in  _ wasting  _ too many of them to hit a bank vault. “Fuck. Miller, how are you holding up?”

His reply is instantaneous, “I’m ready to go, but I still need a diversion.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy manages, his gaze landing back on the jacket hastily abandoned along the side of the room. “I figured.” The secret to most heists- or any sort of job that required a level of discretion, really- involved directing the attention towards something else.  _ Someone  _ else, while the real mark escaped unscathed. Darting over, he pats at the pockets, pulling up the folded layout of the bank that Monty had given him minutes before. It’s a long shot, but it  _ might  _ work. “Sit tight. I have a plan.”

“Uh,” Monty pauses, sounding increasingly doubtful. “The lack of details provided isn’t exactly making me feel better.”

“Just— be on standby. All of you.”

“Got it.”

Sliding the rifle off his shoulder, he loops it over his back instead, slipping into his jacket after. It wouldn’t  _ completely  _ obscure the rifle, but hopefully no one would be looking too closely. He zips it up for good measure, wiping at the sheen of sweat forming at the back of his neck. Then, grabbing at one of the towels by the door, he ties it over the lower half of his face, pushing out of the door before he can talk himself out of it.

The sheer amount of smoke is overwhelming, and his throat  _ burning  _ by the time he stumbles his way out, thundering down the stairs and slowing only as he draws closer to the bottom. He can barely smell any of the smoke here, but it’s only a matter of time. Unknotting his make-shift mask, he tosses the towel behind a potted plant, striding out into the open.

A quick scan of the room reveals four guards situated at each corner of the room, their guns hanging loosely by the sides. Newly hired, if the too-polished boots and twitchy demeanor is any indication. Their gazes drift over to him, and he ducks his head before they have a chance to make eye contact.

Most of the people are gathered over by the tellers, groups of them lingering in clumps instead of orderly lines. He zeroes in on a portly guy bearing a cup of coffee, the hulking form standing before him.

Sidling past them, he extends his leg out, _ kicking _ —

A yelp, followed by a roar of pain. Bellamy weaves himself back into the crowd, pushing his way through the hordes of people that have now all turned to look. The raised voices are followed by the sound of boots striking against the wood floors, guards rushing forward to intervene—

He spares them a glance when he reaches the other end of the room, just to see if they’re all sufficiently distracted. A ring of onlookers have gathered around them, the guards barely visible through the crowds of people.  _ Good. _

Without any preamble whatsoever, he reaches out, pulling at the fire alarm.

It begins to shriek almost instantaneously, the noise persistent and relentless. There’s a beat as everyone seems to process this, the sudden silence broken by a yell. “Fire!”

They all seem to notice the smoke at once, screams rippling through the room as the crowd explodes into pure chaos. Hands push at his back as he tucks his into his pockets, catching a glimpse of the guards pounding up the stairs before he lets himself be swept up by the horde, biting back a grin.

He’s whistling by the time he bursts out of the bank, loping down the stairs and onto the street. The mid-morning air is cooling against his skin, and he lets himself enjoy it for a brief second before tugging his hood back up.

The Rover is waiting by the end of the curb, the door swinging open at his approach. The look on Monty’s face is best described as dismayed, whereas Miller’s is a smirk. Raven’s brow is arched as she gives him a pointed once-over, gaze sliding over to the still-smoking building, to the flood of people bursting onto the street, wide-eyed and panicked.

(It comes to him, then, one of the names that he earned himself over the years:  _ Chaos-bringer.  _ Maybe there had been some truth in that. _ ) _

“Come on, asshole.” Raven finally sighs, beckoning him in. “Let’s go home.”

 

+

Bellamy didn’t fully relax until the familiar exterior of the Dropship came into view; sunlight glinting off the metal tiles and casting shadows against the dented walls. 

From afar, it resembled a rusted tin can covered in one too many coats of paint, the roof sloping and the windows crooked. Their insignia was splashed across the doors, carved into the walls. It decorated every free surface of the structure, the handiwork of new recruits and the younger kids they took in.

In all honesty, it looked like something that had been kicked one too many times and never recovered. It looked like home.

“Get the money to the vault and everything else unpacked,” he instructs, sliding out of the Rover. “Raven, get that grappling hook back to engineering and revise it. Monty, you’ll be wanted over at tech. Miller, get to the med bay and get that scratch checked out.”

There’s a murmured noise of assent at that, though Raven’s is accompanied by an exasperated sigh, her expression morphing into a wince as she clambers out of the car. “Take a breath, old man.”

“No time to waste when there’s money to be earned,” he manages, trying not to let his gaze linger on the brace wrapped around her thigh, the absence of her cane. A part of him is tempted to snap at someone to go fetch it for her, but pity is the last thing Raven would want. “I’m going to go check on the books. If you guys see Jasper, tell him to come look for me.”

“He’s probably still at Mecha, overseeing everything.” Monty pipes up, voice trailing off into a grunt as he unloads one of the boxes out of the boot. “He’ll be back by sundown.”

The snort that leaves Miller’s throat is distinctly disparaging. “If he’s not blackout drunk by then, that is.”

That earns him a withering look on Monty’s part. “He  _ won’t _ be.”

Knowing Jasper, he probably would, but Bellamy’s not quite stupid enough to bring it up in Monty’s presence. The topic of Jasper was a strangely sore point of contention between both Monty and Miller considering how they normally agreed on almost everything else, but it’s really not his responsibility to unravel that mess. He’s busy enough as it is.

“Either way, I need him to update me on our side projects,” he says briskly, shrugging out of his jacket and repositioning his rifle. “Mecha could use a little boost in sales. It shouldn’t be  _ that _ hard to get drunk patrons through—  _ oof. _ ”

He staggers at the sudden weight coiled around his legs, nearly bowled over by the force of it. A quick glance down only confirms his suspicions, and he can’t quite help his smile at the sight of a familiar face, arms locking around the expanse of his thigh.

“Kai,” he greets, disentangling himself before dropping down into a crouch before him. The boy’s eyes are wide, his smile revealing several missing teeth. It’s  _ impossible  _ not to return it with the same level of enthusiasm, his thumb reaching up instinctively to wipe at the smear of dirt on his cheek. “What can I do for you?”

He blinks over at him, giggles. “You have a letter.”

Bellamy eyes the envelope clutched in his hands. Thick, bearing a seal. Official business. It’s enough for his pulse to begin to pick up, mind racing through the possibilities. Working to keep his voice even, he asks, “How did you get this?”

“A man handed it to me at the market,” Kai shrugs, brandishing the envelope in his tiny fist. “Said to pass it along to you when I could.”

“Of course.” He says smoothly, reaching over to pluck it from his grip. The rising feeling in his chest feels akin to panic- not for himself, or even for Skaikru, but for Kai. For the children staying on the grounds, who have been compromised by this new threat. He was infamous, but the Dropship was supposed to be a safe haven, far away from prying eyes and their enemies. “The other kids are probably looking for you, yeah? You should go look for them.”

Kai seems to wilt a little at that, lips twisting into a pout. “You’re not coming?”

“In a bit.” He manages, squeezing at his shoulder comfortingly. “Run along now.”

He holds out until Kai leaves the room, rounding the corner and disappearing from sight. Then he’s turning the envelope over, weighing it in his hands, holding it up to the light so he could make out the seal.

“That’s Marcus Kane’s seal,” Monty says, drawing up behind him. The question in his voice is apparent, as is his confusion. “He’s just a merchant. What’s he doing sending you sealed letters?”

_ Merchant _ is a bit of an understatement, considering he owned fifth harbor and several properties that made him one of the richest businessmen in Arkadia. It definitely didn’t make Bellamy feel any better, knowing that they were being watched and tailed by someone with quite so much power. “Yeah, I would like to know the answer to that myself.” He says finally, sliding his nail under the seal before yanking it free.

There’s only a single sheet of paper enclosed in the envelope despite the supposed thickness, the page crinkling loudly in his hands as he unfolds it. The entirety of it is written in neat, flowing script, a sure indicator of an privileged upbringing. The thought of it still manages to annoy him, somehow, teeth grinding together instinctively.

“What does it say?” Raven cuts in, snapping him out of his reverie.

Taking a final glance at the sheet, he folds it, shoving it back into the envelope hard enough that it crumples under his touch. “He wants to meet me,” he manages, flat, “for a supposed job opportunity.”

“That’s it?” Miller scoffs, brows jerking up to his hairline. “No other explanation, and you’re  _ going _ ?”

“He’s promising thirty million dollars for it,” Bellamy points out, surreptitiously feeling for the knife in his boot before depositing his rifle carelessly against the hood of the Rover. “I’d go even if I had two broken legs and a bullet through my head.”

“Jesus, don’t go  _ unarmed _ .”

“I’ll be fine,” he manages, slipping on a practiced smile. Cocky. Unaffected. The kind that told them nothing of the thoughts racing through his head, the worry brimming on each one of them. The kind he learned to don as silvertongue. “I don’t need a gun to be dangerous.”

 

+

He takes his time making his way down to the square, stopping to stock up on several non-essentials for the Dropship. New gloves and socks and hats. Scrap metal for the engineers. Marbles for the kids, though he keeps those carefully hidden in his pockets.

Kane is already there by the time he makes his way over, foot tapping impatiently against the stones. His attempts at subtlety apparently involve getting his guards to stand three feet away instead of right by his side, which is pretty laughable as far as deception goes.

Still, Bellamy makes a big show of striding over, hooking his fingers through his belt loops in a show of nonchalance.

It’s easy to pinpoint the exact moment when Kane spots him, his gaze considering as he takes him in. He returns the favor, mostly because it would be  _ stupid  _ to underestimate anyone, even a merchant with about zero criminal ties. Salt and pepper beard neatly trimmed, hair grazing against his shoulders. Unarmed, at least from what he can tell, and dark, practical clothes. With the exception of the the a ambassador pin on his jacket (a engagement gift from Abigail Griffin, the  _ current _ chancellor and his fiancé), he could have fit right in with the rest of the crowd.

“Mr. Blake,” he greets at his approach, inclining his head ever so slightly, “I see you got my message.”

His shoulders are drawn tight despite the relaxed lilt of his voice, arms crossed. It makes Bellamy a little smug to have elicited such a reaction from him, even though it’s the effect he tends to have on most people. Lazily, he jerks his chin over to the hovering guards, says, “It appears you didn’t get mine.”

He pales at that, gaze darting away nervously. “I’m— well—”

“To be fair, I didn’t think it was necessary considering how the square is neutral territory,” he continues, mild, “and therefore off-limits to any kind of bloodshed. But maybe that’s just me.”

There’s a beat as Kane seems to process this, the muscle of his jaw working furiously before he gives a sharp shake of his head, the movement effectively sending the guards skittering into the crowd.

“My mistake,” he says curtly, flashing him a tight smile. “I can assure you that I meant no harm.”

“I’m sure,” he shrugs before spinning on his heel and falling into a brisk walk, pulling further away from the crowd. There’s a moment of hesitation on Kane’s part to follow before he catches up, the sound of his footfalls loud against the ground beneath them.

“So,” Bellamy starts off, drumming his fingers against the side of his belt, “I hear you have a proposition for me.”

“A job offer,” Kane rebuts. “And an opportunity to save Arkadia.”

The statement is startling enough that he falters, barely managing to compose himself in time. “Well, that’s surprising, considering how Arkadia doesn’t seem to be in any peril. Or maybe it’s just on your side of the fence.”

“There are no  _ sides  _ about this,” he insists, voice taking on a urgent edge. “This involves  _ all  _ of us. It’s about the City of Light.”

“So, you’re taking up Thelonious Jaha’s mantle after he went crazy and disappeared?” he retorts, snorting. “Getting run out of the city suddenly sounds appealing to you?”

He rounds on him then, planting himself directly in Bellamy’s path and forcing him to a stop. “I can assure you that none of this is a joke, Mr. Blake. Now, I don’t know about you, but there’s been strange news, as of late. Stories of people massacring their own villages under the influence of some strange new drug. Whispers of people losing their memories, their  _ will,  _ and causing them to commit acts of atrocity.”

It comes to him in a flash, then— a cloudy memory of Miller telling him the news, the scattered rumors of such incidents occurring in distant, far-away places; at Blue Cliff and Broad Leaf and Shallow Valley. They had been a blip on his radar, barely a ripple. He had been curious, but not worried. It was hard to be, when none of it sounded remotely believable in the first place.

Licking his lips to bring some moisture back in his mouth, he asks, “What does that have to do with the City of Light?”

“Everything,” Kane answers, grim. “The City of Light isn’t a tangible, physical place. It’s a simulation that people can access by ingesting a chip. Now, it doesn’t  _ inherently  _ sound like a bad thing, except for the fact that it not only erases pain, but also memories associated with them as well as your free will.”

“So whose will is being exerted in place of their own?” he demands, folding his arms across his chest. A part of him is tempted to reach for his knife, to check if it’s there, but he tamps down the urge to. That would just clue Kane off as to how antsy he’s feeling about all of this.

“A form of artificial intelligence known as Alie. I’m not sure why she’s doing this or  _ how,  _ exactly, but I found this—” his hand dips into his pocket, the fabric rustling as Bellamy’s fingers twitch once more towards his knife, “— at the docks today.”

It’s small, a piece of plastic with an infinity sign etched on it. Plucking it from Kane’s grasp, he studies it, turning it over in his palms. Its edges are smooth against his fingers, cool to touch. “I take that this is the key to the City of Light.”

Kane nods. “You have to ingest it for it to work. But don’t you see what’s worrying about all of this? It’s arrived at Arkadia.  _ Someone _ wants to infect the people of this city.”

The thought of a chipped Arkadia, a  _ controlled  _ one makes his blood go cold. Another story comes to mind, then: rumors of a once peaceful oil rig, taken over by one of their own members that slaughtered the others in cold blood. He had dismissed it after the story got out, put it down to changing politics. But it’s hard to think that way now when the puzzle pieces are lining up, falling into a recognizable pattern.

“Even if this was true,” he shrugs, levelling his gaze onto Kane, “I’m still not sure as to how I come into the picture. What, you want me to steal the shipments being sent to Arkadia? Destroy the current stash?”

“No, I need you to retrieve someone. The person who’s probably responsible for all of this, and the only person who can tell us how to stop this.” A pause as he takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “Thelonious Jaha.”

“The last time I checked, he was out there wandering the dead zone by himself.” Bellamy states. His apparent disinterest seems to be causing Kane a significant amount of agitation, which he can’t help but feel a little pleased by. “I don’t think it’ll be difficult for you to send one of your lackeys to go fetch him.”

“I would if he was still in the deadzone.” He counters, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Just last week, he was picked up by Azgeda soldiers and according to my sources, is now being held alive and prisoner at the Ice Nation. I have reason to believe that they’ll attempt to use the City of Light and the chips for their own gain, though haven’t made any headway as of now.”

His own dealings with the Ice Nation leaves no room for doubt about it, but there’s no sense in telling Kane that.  “Let me get this straight,” Bellamy says, trying valiantly to rein in the disbelief peeking through in his voice, “you want me to break into the Ice Court, a  _ fortress  _ within the Ice Nation _ ,  _ mind you, and rescue a highly guarded prisoner without getting caught?”

“Skaikru’s relative success rate is why I approached you in the first place,” Kane replies. “You don’t send in sheep to deal with wolves. You find wolves of your own.”

He bristles at that, bares his teeth instead in a remarkable show of restraint. “We’re not  _ yours  _ to own.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“We’re yours to  _ pay, _ ” Bellamy interrupts, shooting him a cool smile. “And the price for hire has been raised to fifty million dollars. Take it or leave it.”

A strangled noise leaves Kane’s throat at that, “The deal is  _ thirty _ !”

“Go on then,” he shrugs, working to keep his voice dismissive. “Find someone else to participate in your suicide mission.”

That earns him a glare before Kane extends his hand out, the movement grudging. Not even  _ pretending  _ to re-consider his offer, or dragging it out to make him sweat. “You mess things up and the deal is off, silvertongue.”

He smirks, reaching over to take his hand and shaking it. “I’d get your accounts lined up and ready if I were you.” It’s hard to stay focused, though, considering how his mind is already miles away— thinking about the best possible team to assemble for this job, fifty million dollars,  _ Azgeda _ and what waits for him there. “Skaikru doesn’t take well to late payments.”

 

+

In another lifetime, Bellamy would have probably gone to college.

On good days, he toyed with the idea of it. He would have visited every single one of the libraries situated on campus. He would have spent afternoons curled up by the windows, reading. There would be grass crunching under his feet instead of stone, and a pen gripped between his teeth instead of a knife. He would deliberate between majoring in History or Classics, and his mother would roll her eyes at that, tell him that he was doomed to live a poor man’s life. Octavia would visit on weekends, and he would buy her a cup of chocolate.

The fantasy never went past that, always stopped taking shape the second he thought of her. It was impossible to think of Octavia and college in the same context, like trying to hold running water in his hands. The image rippled and disappeared before it could take hold.

If it wasn’t for her, he probably  _ could  _ have gone to college. He would never have known what it felt like to grow up the way he did; shoulders heavy with the weight of holding everything up and knuckles bruised from fighting for every inch he got. Maybe he could have grown into someone better. Someone good, instead of this. Boy with a black heart and a silver tongue and hands so bloodied that it stained his skin red.

Shaking his head impatiently, he bats the thought away, annoyed at himself for having gone down that road. It’s been awhile since he’s thought about his past, since he’s  _ really _ thought about Octavia, and it feels a lot liking poking at a fresh bruise. Achy, and still too tender to touch. Huffing, he distracts himself by fiddling with the wire-frame glasses perched on his nose instead, slumping further down against the wall.

“Is it me,” Monty’s voice cuts in, buzzing at his ear, “but are college kids getting  _ smaller _ ?”

He can’t quite help his responding snort at that. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that I stand at a respectable height of 5’8.”

Bellamy manages a small noise of assent, already distracted by the sheer volume of people trekking through the quad. Being in the university district felt like being in a whole new world. The students dressed in lightweight, cotton fabric— none of the thick, padded fare that most Arkadians wore like armor. Notebooks in hand instead of guns. Even the air smelled different, lacking the scent of smoke and garbage that wafted through the city.

“Architecture majors have just been let out of class and are flooding in from the south wing.” Monty instructs, “I’ll lose visual the second you walk into the building though, so you’re on your own from there.”

He nods; the motion instinctive, even though Monty might not be able to make it out considering the distance of where he’s situated. Well, unless he still had his binoculars up. “It’s fine. Head on back to the Dropship, I can handle the rest.”

“See you tonight.”

“If I make it back,” he teases, weaving through the crowd. “I wouldn’t count these college students out. One of them could stab me in the neck with a protractor for criticizing the lack of symmetry in their windows.”

“Don’t even joke about something like that,” Monty mutters, the low rumble of the Rover starting up drowning out the rest of his words, “— see you at home.”

The word sticks in his throat, makes it a little hard to swallow. Sometimes, he can’t quite believe that they’ve managed to carve a home out of the rubble, out of broken people and shreds of hope and a will to survive, beyond anything. They’ve fought hard for it, and now, they got to keep it. “See you.”

There’s a resounding  _ click  _ by his ear as the line goes dead, and he makes sure to dispose of the device in the nearest trash can he finds. Then, spinning on his heel, he heads towards the south wing of the campus.

A rush of cool air drifts over his skin as he enters the building, gaze roving over the numerous people rushing past, sketchbooks in hand. He could approach the group gathered over by the tables, poring over sheets and sheets of graph paper. Or maybe the ones still lingering outside their classrooms, caught in the midst of some sort of discussion. He has a fair share of options.

Still, he finds his gaze sliding over them entirely, already searching for something else. He catches the tail-ends of a murmured swear in the din, the muffled  _ thump  _ of something striking the ground, and he’s moving towards the source before he can stop himself, dropping into a crouch to grasp at the scattered sheets.

“Fuck,” a voice says from above him, rueful. “It’s— it’s fine, just leave it. I’ll do it.”

He shrugs, gathering the rest of the papers into his palm. Red-stamped envelopes and loose sheets of notes, a few pamphlets and catalogues. His fingers halt at the sight of the several sketches, buried under a sheaf of discount coupons. The charcoal is smudged from the fall, but the level of detail in it is impossible to miss. Carefully, he retrieves it from the stack, holding it under the light. It’s Arkadia’s skyline, the buildings smoking under his fingertips when he pulls away.

“These are good,” he says by a way of greeting, rising to his feet carefully. “Did you draw them?”

The girl regards him warily, sizing him up. Objectively, she’s pretty, all soft lines and curves, blonde hair falling to her shoulders. She feels alien compared to the girls he’s seen in Arkadia. Her hands bear ink stains instead of calluses, the red splattered on her clothes from paint rather than blood. Even her hair looks freshly washed, a section of it braided back into to the sides, a crown of sorts.

_ Fitting,  _ he can’t help but think sourly, arching a brow over at her.  _ Like a princess. _

“Yeah,” she says finally, guarded. “What’s it to you?”

He flits through a couple of possible responses, quickly settling for charming. Effusive. Chuckling, he raises his hands up in mock surrender, twists his mouth into a broad, unrestrained smile, “Whoa there, princess. It’s just a compliment. You don’t have to get testy with me.”

If anything, her expression only seems to  _ harden _ at that, sharpening into a glare. The look in his eyes can only be described as calculating, like she’s figuring out the best way to unravel him without breaking a sweat. He swallows, has to admit that he’s a little intrigued by it. By her.

“Well, I generally hold an issue with people who go through my stuff without asking,” she continues, her voice dangerously soft. “Or people who feel the need to comment on  _ my  _ things when I didn’t ask for an opinion.”

“Fair enough,” he counters, grinning as he regards her through a half-lidded gaze. He’s always been good at this, at flirting and seduction and knowing exactly  _ how  _ to reel them in, how to keep them on the hook. “Maybe I can make it up to you with a cup of coffee?”

There’s a pause as she seems to consider this, chin cocked. For half a second, he almost thinks that she might say  _ no,  _ which would be a first, for him—

“I’ll take one of those cookies by the cart, too.” She says, flipping her hair over her shoulder before striding off, as if expecting him to follow.

He stares for awhile, a little dumbstruck, before his feet catches up to his brain and he’s scurrying after her, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.  _ Maybe there’s more to princess than meets the eye. _

 

+

They find a tiny alcove set against one of the older buildings, located within a quieter part of campus.

Flopping down onto the bench, she bites into her cookie without any hesitation whatsoever, leaving a smear of icing in the vicinity of her top lip. “So,” she begins, fingers drumming restlessly against her knee. “You like my sketches.”

It’s not much a question as it is a statement. The challenging glint in her eyes makes him straighten a little in his seat, carefully weighing his next choice of words. She’s clearly not as much of an easy mark that he thought she would be, and it would take a certain amount of effort to spin this the way he wanted it to go. “That, and your face.” He murmurs, making sure to graze at the outside of her thigh with his fingers lightly. “I bet your name is something that I’d be a fan of too.”

“It’s a good one,” she says pleasantly, leaning in slightly. Close enough for him to notice the mole against her upper lip, to notice that she smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon. Then, with a slow, languid smile, “Probably as good as the story you’ve come up with to get what you  _ really _ want, right?”

_ Fuck.  _ Pasting a small smile on his face, he draws closer instead of answering, trying to calm the racing of his thoughts. Slowly, he reaches over to press his thumb against the divot of her chin, holding her in place. Her lashes tickle his skin when her eyes flutter shut, instinctive, and he feels a surge of relief rushing through his veins at having successfully diverted her. “Your number, mostly.” He says, with as much flirtatiousness in his voice that he can muster.

“Oh,” she breathes, and he has to repress a small shiver when her lips brushes up against his. It’s a struggle, at this point, to remember why it would be such a bad idea to just  _ kiss _ her already. “And here I thought it had something to do with the sketch of the Ice Court you pilfered from my stash.”

He freezes, meeting her cold, steady gaze. When she pulls away, she’s holding up the folded up drawing he stuffed in his pocket just minutes ago, the paper bearing a scrawled  _ CG  _ at the top right hand corner.

“So, are you ready to talk now, or are you just going to keep batting your eyelashes at me?” she simpers, her smirk only growing wider at his burgeoning scowl.

Scoffing, he bites his tongue, resisting the urge to swear at her. “I’ve heard from around that you’ve been to the Ice Nation,” he says, the lie slipping smoothly off his tongue, “more  _ specifically,  _ the Ice Court. And considering I’ll be visiting next summer, I thought I could get some pointers from you.”

“Pointers don’t include stealing sketches detailing its layout.” She says, brusque, her gaze narrowing into slits as she looks him over once more—lingering at the curve of his tattoo barely hidden under his shirt, the slightly raised bump of his clothes from his concealed knife. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

It’s pointless to attempt to stick to his ruse, especially after she decimated it in  _ seconds.  _ “No, not exactly.”

“I figured,” she says, dismissive, the furrow between her brows deepening. “You’re— you’re from Arkadia, aren’t you? You’re a part of the gangs. And you need  _ my  _ help.”

“I don’t  _ need  _ your help,” he huffs out, crossing his arms over his chest. “I need— I just need you to give me a detailed layout of the Ice Court and the surrounding land around it. Evidently, you’ve been there enough to have most of it memorized.”

She raises a single, arched brow at him. “And what am I supposed to be getting in return?”

He can’t quite help the impatient noise that leaves his throat at that. “Money. Assuming you’re asking for a reasonable amount for what I’m guessing will be an hour’s worth or two of work.”

“Please,” she snorts. “The Ice Court is impenetrable. No one has made it in unless they  _ want  _ you there. It’s basically a suicide mission—” she pauses, and the glimmer of interest in her eyes unmistakable. Then, almost as if goading him, “How much are they paying  _ you  _ to do it?”

“None of your business.” Bellamy snaps, running a palm over his face frustratedly. “Can you do it, or not?”

“Sure,” she snorts, giving a derisive laugh. “But you won’t survive two seconds in there without me.”

It takes him a minute to register the meaning behind her words, rubbing at his ear furiously to make sure that he didn’t mishear her. “Wait— are you saying— you’re saying that you want to be a  _ part  _ of this?”

“I’m saying that I want to receive a part of the fortune that you guys are sure to be getting,” she says, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “Besides, I’m not lying. You need me to get through the Ice Court. The Ice Nation is not a place you can navigate with just a map and sheer dumb luck.”

The insinuation doesn’t sting as much as it should, considering he did sort of make an ass of himself in the past hour or so. Instead of responding to that, he gives her a slow, thorough once-over, making sure to linger over the watch strapped to her wrist, the diamond studs at her ears. “What do  _ you  _ need a fortune for?”

She flushes, chin jerking up stubbornly. Then, mimicking his tone, “That’s none of your business.”

“Of course,” he says mockingly, before reaching into his jacket pocket and dropping the pile of envelopes he had filched in the hubbub. “It has  _ absolutely  _ nothing to do with the fact that you’re being evicted from your dorm for late payment. What, you do something to piss off your parents, and they cut you off?” He makes a faux sympathetic noise at that, feeling a rush of satisfaction at the barely concealed rage on her face. “Let me guess, you dated someone from the wrong side of the tracks. Or, your shoes didn’t match your dress at their latest tea party.”

The look she shoots him is pure venom. “Fuck you.”

“We established that you were trying to do that five minutes ago, yes,” he says briskly, glancing down quickly at the much more battered watch strapped to his wrist. Wincing at the time, he sighs, relents. “Fine, since we’re going to be colleagues— I’m Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

There’s a moment of hesitation on her part— unsurety and doubt flickering across her face before it clears, so quickly that it’s almost as if he imagined it. “Clarke,” she says, and he tries to keep his surprise from showing when she extends a hand out to shake, a strangely conciliatory gesture. “Just Clarke.”

He takes it, the warmth of her skin radiating against his for a tantalizing minute before he drops it, flexing his fingers by his side. “Welcome to the team, Clarke.” Then, mostly because he can’t help himself, “Now let’s hope you stay alive long enough to be of use.”

(Her glare trails him all the way back home; the sketch of Arkadia’s skyline still tucked securely in his jacket.)

 

+

The room is small, cramped. He has to stoop just to get through the doorway— a fact that Raven is all too eager to remind him about as soon they begin to unpack. 

“I mean, I’m not exactly asking for the Ritz here,” she grumbles, perched on the lone sofa in the apartment, legs swinging in tandem to the clatter of Miller’s footfalls against the stairs, the occasional swear Monty emits at the sound of each muffled crash. “But you have to admit that this is a little cheap, even for  _ us. _ ”

“This is fine,” he declares brusquely, dropping her toolbox onto the desk with a pointed  _ thunk.  _ “We’re bringing in outsiders here, Rae. Skaikru territory is off-limits.”

“I didn’t mean the Dropship. I’m talking about the other hundred or so properties and taverns that we own.”

He thinks of Clarke’s sharp gaze; the keen, almost piercing look that came across her face as she had pieced together their plans, locating the stray threads of information he had given her and unravelling it in a instant. Unweaving their carefully formed tapestry with a hard, strategic yank. “She’ll figure it out.” He admits grudgingly. “Though the less she knows, the better.”

“Fine,” Miller huffs, kicking the door shut behind him. “But did you really have to get a apartment with  _ one  _ bedroom?”

“You try finding a five room apartment with a working kitchen and amenities to rent under a week,” he remarks, carefully sweeping the papers sprawled across the table into a neat pile. “But, hey. Thanks for volunteering to sleep on the floor this time.”

Miller straightens at that, brows furrowed. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Actually, why not just take the bedroom with Monty?” he suggests, tilting his chin in the best doe-eyed, innocent expression he can muster. “Raven can take the tub, and  _ I’ll _ handle the couch.”

Monty’s head jerks up at that, alert. “Did someone say my name?”

“ _ No, _ ” Miller practically barks out, glowering. Then, eked out from between gritted teeth, “I’ll take the floor. You can have the bed.”

Monty shrugs, turning away, interest in the conversation clearly lost. “It’s fine. I think I’ll sleep better in the armchair anyway.”

Bellamy bites back a snigger at Miller’s responding scowl, barely manages to muffle a grunt of pain when he receives an elbow in his ribs in retaliation. Eyes watering, he manages a rude gesture in return before heading out, flipping up the hood of his jacket as he goes.

The plan was for Clarke to meet him by the market, but she’s conspicuously absent by the time he gets to the mulled wine booth. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he resists the urge to do something impulsive, like possibly make his way down to campus to  _ drag  _ her over—

“Sorry,” she announces at her arrival, sounding a little breathless. “I had some unavoidable business to tend to.”

He arches a brow over at her, raking his gaze over her form. Her cheeks are pink, tiny tendrils of hair escaping from her braid and framing her face. There’s a smudge of grease by her upper lip that she must have missed, and a sketchbook tucked haphazardly under her arm. The furthest possible thing from  _ typical,  _ in the streets of Arkadia.

“I didn’t know your kind ate street food,” Bellamy muses, reaching over to scrape the remnants of salt off her cheek. The motion sets him on edge almost instantly, puts him in a irritable mood. Touching her- or any gesture of familiarity, really- shouldn’t come so naturally to him. “Think you fulfilled your daily charity quota yet?”

“Depends on if you’ve satisfied  _ your _ quota on making all these snide comments about my social status.” She says, beaming with false enthusiasm. “I’ll probably get it out of my system once you do.”

“You’re going to be eating street food for a long time, then.”

Her gaze slides right past him, landing on a booth selling fried potato skins. “Don’t see how that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’m sure it must be all so novel for you, princess,” he says dryly, sweeping an arm out to steer her through the crowd. “Unfortunately, we’re on a tight deadline here.”

The look that she shoots him is distinctly withering. “I was  _ five  _ minutes late.”

“It’s going to be six if you’re planning on just standing around like this,” he snaps, gesturing her forward. “What are you waiting for, a hand-drawn carriage and a footman?”

She makes a disapproving noise at that, rounding on him so suddenly that he backs up a few steps instinctively. “It’s not like you’ve told me  _ where _ we’re going, though I think I can take an educated guess. The Domus? Alpha taverns?”

_ All places owned by Skaikru _ . It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that she did her research, though he’s curious as to the extent of what she knows. “Someone’s been doing her homework.”

“You’re somewhat of a legend in these parts,” she says, her tone deliberately conversational. “It’s not hard to get people talking once you’ve bought a hot drink from them, or a snack or two.”

“All good things, I’m sure.”

“Seems to be a pretty evenly split on you being a thieving, murdering psychopath and you being a thieving, murdering home-grown hero.”

The words spill out of him before he can stop them, “I wasn’t even born in Arkadia.”

That seems to pique her curiosity, at least. “I figured.” She continues, side-eyeing him measuredly. “There’s something a little lacking about your accent.”

He clamps his lips together to keep from saying anything else, the frustration from before bubbling up in fits and surges. How did she  _ do  _ that? Look right through him and get under his skin all in the span of a breath? “My accent is fine.”

“I know it is. It just doesn’t seem entirely Arkadian. Maybe a little Northern.”

There’s some truth in her statement, considering that he had been born in a small village town before his mother had moved them to Arkadia, with Octavia’s arrival coming shortly after that. The city had devoured them whole, picked their bones clean. It makes his stomach twist, thinking about it. “You done?”

“I’m—”

“Good,” he cuts in, abrupt. “Can we move along now, or would you like to waste more of everyone’s precious time?”

Somehow, the wounded expression on her face is a lot less satisfying than he thought it would be.

 

+

There are numerous impossible feats that Bellamy has known his team to be capable of. 

Building a bomb out of a tin can, for one, or scaling skyscrapers without gear. Breaking into various restricted places with nothing but a clothesline and several matchsticks is another, though those stories are brought up  _ only _ when no one is coherent or sober enough to get the details straight. (Sometimes, Miller writes haikus about them when he hits the sweet spot between tipsy and flat out drunk, but it’s hard to strike that perfect balance.)

The point remains that they’re a pretty ruthless, competent bunch. One that is deserving of their current reputation.

Still, it’s hard to convince  _ Clarke _ of that, considering the scene she just walked in on.

Swearing profusely, he grabs at the fire extinguisher, barking out a hurried, “ _ Move! _ ” before marching over to douse the flames. Thankfully, it goes out easily, leaving behind a charred, blackened twist of metal and the smell of smoke lingering heavily in the air.

There’s a beat as they all stare down at the still-smoking object; burnt to a crisp and pretty much unrecognizable.

“So,” Bellamy starts, clearing his throat in what he hopes is a calm, dignified manner, “anyone wants to clue me in on what the  _ fuck  _ is going on?”  

“ _ Raven _ dared me to—”

“I had nothing to do with this!”

“— And you can’t expect me to just idly by when she  _ dared _ me—”

“Okay, but Monty is the one who said that we should—”

His eyes drift over to her amidst the chaos, meeting her gaze. There’s a faint smile playing at her lips, and something akin to amusement in her eyes. It’s a nice look on her. He looks away before the image takes hold; before it becomes a memory that is sure to linger at the corners of his mind during one too many sleepless nights.

“Alright,  _ enough _ ,” he cuts in, giving a dismissive wave of his hand, “I just realized I don’t care. Well, unless you guys managed to blow up all the blueprints and plans we had for the Ice Court.”

“Those are fine,” Monty pipes up, ducking under the table to retrieve a sheaf of papers. “I had the foresight to put them away when Raven decided to blow up the pressure regulator.”

He lifts a hand up placatingly before she can get a word in the edgeways. “Great. Our new architect is going to have to vet them for accuracy.”

The silence that blankets his statement is instantaneous, each one of them turning over to look at her. To her credit, she doesn’t waver from the collective stares, just tightens her grip on her sketchbook almost imperceptibly.

“This is Clarke,” he says, feigning obliviousness to the undercurrent of tension building in the room. “She’s here to help us make sure that we don’t get blown up whilst navigating Ice Nation terrain.” Then, gesturing over at the others, he continues, “Clarke, this is everyone. Everyone, Clarke. Now that we got that out of the way, we need to focus on—”

“Hang on,” she protests, frowning. “I didn’t get everyone else’s names.”

He can only stare for a second, struggling to rein in his rapidly rising impatience. “You don’t need them.”

“So, what?” she asks, her voice taking on a mocking edge. “I’m supposed to refer to them as  _ girl one,  _ and  _ boy two _ ? Or hey, maybe codenames. Tweedledum and tweedledee, or I don’t know, are we looking at a theme here?”

“It’s not important.” He says brusquely, thrusting the stack of papers towards her. “You’re here on a need to know basis.”

She doesn’t take them, just continues  _ glowering  _ at him; all insolence and determination and those damned blue eyes. “You can’t expect me to do my job if I’m kept in the dark about all the pieces on the chessboard.”

“What part of need to know—”

“I like you,” Raven interjects suddenly, grinning as she sidles up to Clarke. He widens his eyes at her, resisting the urge to come right out and ask her what the  _ hell  _ she thinks she’s doing. “You know how to push Bellamy’s buttons.”

That seems to startle her, but only for a split second before she recovers, returning Raven’s smile easily. “It doesn’t seem to take much effort.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure you’re just a natural.”

“I mean, it’s not like it’s  _ hard  _ to piss him off,” Miller chimes in, shrugging, “but you seem to be pretty adept at it so far. It’s impressive.”

Scowling, he aims a dirty look over at Miller- fucking  _ Judas _ \- before speaking, “Cute. You guys done with your team-bonding schtick yet? Or should I add braiding each other’s hair into the schedule, too?”

Raven ignores him at that, rolling right past his complaints. “I believe you’ve already been introduced to Bellamy, so we can just skip right past him.” Then, jerking her chin over at Miller, she continues, “This is Nathan Miller, our best lockpick and thief. Not much for scintillating conversation, but he’s your guy if you need something to be discreetly spirited away in the middle of the night. Monty Green, genius hacker and engineer. And me, Raven Reyes,” she grins once more, baring her teeth, “best in my trade. I’m the mechanic.”

“And a goddamn pain in the ass.” Bellamy huffs out, rubbing his hand over his face to keep from showing how annoyed he feels by this turn of events. They’re not supposed to _actually_ like her. They’re supposed to be on their guard. “Look, we’re done here. You all have work to attend to, so let’s start actually _doing_ what we have to do to get our fifty million dollars.”

Clarke’s eyes widen at that, gaze flitting back to him. “As in, ten million dollars  _ each _ ? Just to break into the Ice Court?”

He scoffs, fumbling for the keys he’s tossed in the pockets of his jacket. “You know what? I’m sure Raven will be more than happy to give you more details about that. She’s been very forthcoming so far.”

Then, with one last icy smile directed at her, Bellamy yanks at the door knob, slipping outside. He could use a fucking drink.

 

+

The apartment is surprisingly quiet by the time he fits his key into the lock, twisting it carefully and stepping inside. 

He didn’t  _ mean  _ to stay out for that long, but one drink turned to two, and two drinks ended up with him checking on Jasper and the rest of the other ventures he had lined up for Skaikru. Leaving Riley in charge in his stead had been a good idea, but Bellamy still worried anyway.

Carefully stepping over Monty’s sprawled legs, he moves further into the room, mindful of the sound of his footsteps against the wood. Miller is passed out on the couch, arm out stretched and half-dangling towards the ground, inches away from Monty’s ankle. Raven is nowhere in sight, so he’s assuming that she has commandeered the tub, which leaves him with—

He stops short at the sight of her; seated on the rug with her legs folded beneath her and a pile of papers in hand.

“What are you still doing here?” he whispers, folding his arms across his chest.

Clarke peers up at him from between a fan of lashes, her expression contemplative. “What does it  _ look  _ like I’m doing?” she asks, her voice raspy in the quiet of the room.

“I don’t know.” He says tartly, throwing in a small shrug. “Drawing concentric circles on graph paper?”

“Funny,” she replies, flat, dropping her gaze back to the pencil in her hand. “It’s actually the layout of Ice Nation.”

It’s difficult to keep his surprise from showing at that. “ _ That’s  _ Ice Nation?”

She nods, getting to her feet slowly, lifting the sheet up to the light so he could make out the evenness of each circle, its radius. “It’s built like the rings of a tree, see? My knowledge on their culture is a little rusty, but I’m pretty sure that most of their folklore and legends are built around this sacred tree. Hence, the structure.”

“A sacred tree,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.  _ What is it with Grounders and their silly superstitions?  _ “Fucking fantastic.”

To his surprise, that actually gets a small laugh out of her; the sound bright and lilting. It makes him want to do something stupid, like stare. Or try and get it out of her again. “That’s actually not the worst I’ve heard. Did you hear the story about Trikru? And guns?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says absently, forcing his gaze away from her and to the paper instead. “I’ve heard it. I just don’t care much for it.”

There’s a beat as she seems to consider this, worrying at her lip with her teeth. Then, with a deep breath as if bracing herself, she says, “You don’t seem to care for very much at all. Well, maybe except for the people in this room. Your people.”

At his silence, she adds, “Present company excluded, of course.”

The moment is fraught with a kind of tension he can’t seem to place, arising rapidly out of nowhere. He licks his lips, weighing out his response. He wants to tell her that it’s none of her business, that she’s damn well right about not being a part of the short list of people he cares about. He wants to rip her to shreds, to make sure that she’ll never question him again. He wants to be honest.

“Don’t get it wrong, princess. I care about you,” he smirks, making a show of sweeping his gaze over her. “Well, I’d care about anyone who’s helping me get my fifty million dollars, really.”

The expression on her face hardens at that, nostrils flaring. “Of course, it’s all about  _ you,  _ isn’t it? Even though this is something bigger than all of us here. Even though this is something that could affect thousands, no,  _ millions _ of lives. We’re talking about a homicidal, mind-controlling A.I. here, Bellamy. Don’t you give a shit about what happens if we fail?”

The answer rises up within him, unbidden.  _ Yes. Unfortunately.  _ Or maybe even  _ how could I not _ ? But he snuffs them out before they fall off his tongue, shaking his head so as to clear it. “As long as my people and I are safely are out of the way? Fuck no.”

He’s not sure what to make of the blazing look in her eyes: anger, but something else, too. Almost disappointment. “So, what?” she laughs, the sound harsh and sharp, at odds with the one he heard just minutes ago. “You can go to sleep at night,  _ knowing  _ that you bear some responsibility to all these people’s deaths? As long as  _ you  _ are safe? You and your people?”

“ _ God _ ,” he snarls, the words bursting out of his chest, sudden and torrential. “You’re so fucking naive, princess. Do you  _ really  _ think we’re going to get to save everybody? Do you really think anyone is going to escape this, unscathed? There are fucking casualties  _ everywhere,  _ as of now! People are going to  _ die,  _ whether we succeed or not, and if I get the option to protect my people? If I have the choice to save at least  _ some  _ of them? I’ll choose them.” He’s breathing hard now, hands shaking by his side. “I’ll choose them every damned time. Over  _ anyone _ .”

_ Myself included,  _ he doesn’t add, gritting his teeth together to force the words back.

She doesn’t say anything right away, just stares back at him, her chest heaving with exertion and jaw set. It’s then that he realizes how close together they are, their bodies brushing up against each other with each breath. For half a second, he’s almost tempted to grab at her hips, push her up against the wall. Crash his mouth against hers, all bruising heat, until she would forget everything they had been arguing about.

“I may be naive,” Clarke says shakily, and he has to fight the urge to close his eyes when he feels her warm breath fan across his cheek; the remnants of the fantasy from before still brimming at the edge of his thoughts, “but I also have hope. We’re doing this, Bellamy. Failure isn’t an option.”

“It won’t be if you do your job right.” He ekes out, his voice rough, before pulling away. The sudden rush of air feels blessedly cool against his feverish skin. “Just— fuck. Go to sleep. We’ll update each other in the morning.”

“Fine.” She snaps, stepping back.

Peeling off his jacket, he grabs at one of the cushions by the sofa, laying it down on the floor. It’s a little lumpy, clearly old and missing most of its stuffing, and he grimaces a little when he lies against it. It’s been awhile since he’s slept on the floor, and he knows he’s going to feel the effects of it tomorrow.

“What are you doing?”

He grunts, shifting slightly. “Yoga.” Then, with a barely concealed sigh, “For fuck’s sake, princess. What do you think?”

“But there’s a bed right there.” She argues, sounding a little indignant. “Just— don’t be stubborn, and put it to good use.”

Cracking open an eye, he regards her with a pointed look. “I figured you could have it, considering how unused you are to hardship.”

That pulls a frustrated sound out of her, half snarl and half sigh. “I’m fine where I am, thank you.”

“You’ve never spent the night asleep on the floor, have you?”

Bellamy hears the  _ thump  _ of a pillow striking the ground, the crack of her knees as she settles down a few feet away from him. “No. But there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

“Will you just,” he groans, throwing his hand up to ruck it through his hair impatiently, “ _ stop  _ being such a stubborn ass, and go to sleep on the nice, comfortable bed already?”

“You do it.” She says primly, just as he hears her hitting at the light switch, plunging them into half-darkness. He opens his eyes at that, instinctive, gaze catching on her hair spread out across her pillow, glowing silver in the moonlight. “I’m fine where I am.”

He would probably have pushed a little harder, _insisted,_ actually, if it had been anyone but her. But she was Clarke, and he learned in a few short days that she was some sort of force of nature; immovable and sweeping and impossible to predict. He could spend forever trying to plot the longitudes and latitudes of her next move only to come up short.

“If you say so,” Bellamy mutters, tearing his gaze away and staring up at the ceiling instead. “G’night, princess.”

It stays quiet on her end, long enough for him to think that she’s fallen asleep. Then, he feels her leg brushing up against his, brief and warm and light enough that he could have imagined it entirely.

“G’night, Bellamy.” She murmurs, before her breaths even out entirely.

 

+

He wakes to the sound of Monty’s furious swearing, the low hum of the kettle gurgling in the background. 

“... it’s pretty much falling to pieces.”

“Tell him to get a new one,” another voice says, unmistakably Clarke’s. “How else are you guys supposed to function without caffeine?”

“He never believes us because it works fine for him.” Monty snorts. “Somehow, it’s not a hissing, spitting mess when he’s using it. Apparently, it only  _ selectively  _ spurts hot water at you, depending on the user.”

“Go figure.”

A laugh goes up as they clink their mugs together, and he has to resist the urge to take a surreptitious peek over at them. Of all things he expected about Clarke, bonding with his team  _ definitely  _ wasn’t one of them.

“So, how long have you been doing this?”

There’s a beat as Monty seems to consider this. “Close to three years? I came to Arkadia with my parents a few years back.” His laugh is soft, resigned. “Two small town farmers, looking to make big bucks. They worked while I focused on getting my engineering degree, learned about computer systems on the side. But, uh. It didn’t work out, and Bellamy took me in after they passed away.”

He cracks an eye open at that, allowing himself to take a quick peek. Monty’s knuckles are white against the handle of the mug, Clarke’s hand coming up to rest against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “That must have been hard.”

“It was,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The city has a way of devouring people whole. I clawed my way out,” he shrugs, the faintest of smiles playing against his lips, “but only with Bellamy’s help.”

She doesn’t stiffen at the mention of his name, but it’s a near thing. “By recruiting you to be a part of Skaikru.”

“Bellamy does like his strays,” Monty comments, taking a careful sip from his mug. “I’m just glad that I’m one of them. That I have a home again, despite all odds.”

The pause that descends on them this time feels longer, somehow. Stretches. He has to resist the urge to fidget, his stomach growling lowly at the thought of coffee and breakfast and a hot shower—

“It’s just— I’ve heard of him. Before any of this happened.” She admits, her voice strained. “I had him pegged as one of those cruel, vindictive dictator types, you know? Immoral and greedy. Just out to make some cash, regardless of who he hurts.”

“Don’t get me wrong, because he  _ is _ capable of it.” Monty says, frowning. “I mean, you don’t get the reputation he has by being  _ nice  _ to everyone. I’m just— I’m saying that he’s not the monster that everyone paints him out to be. That he’s capable of good, too. You may think that it’s terrible to recruit someone into a gang, to pull them into the underbelly of Arkadia, but— he’s given them a home when no one else has. A family.” Then, in a voice that brooks no argument, “It’s all you can hope for to survive this city.”

“I know that now,” Clarke points out, and if he squints, he can make out the crease forming in the space between her brows, “but I just— I don’t know. What about his  _ own  _ family? How did Skaikru come about, and where—”

Bellamy takes that as his cue to give a loud, exaggerated yawn, rolling to his side lazily before pulling himself upright. That’s about as much speculation he can take about his personal life. Never mind that it’s coming from  _ Clarke,  _ of all people. “Morning.”

“Hey,” Monty says, exceedingly casual. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure,” he agrees, wincing at the crack of his joints as he rises to his feet. “Leave the kettle, and go get the others. I’m calling a team meeting.”

Her head whips over to him then, the expression on her face distinctly scandalized. “Right now?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he counters, scrunching his brows together in a piss-poor approximation of deep contemplation, “I must have forgotten to mail out the invitations and lay out the crumpets. I’ll get to that and  _ then  _ we can start this meeting.”

She scoffs, shaking her head disapprovingly over at him. “It’s not that, alright? Raven and Miller had a late night. I think they could use the rest.”

The implication behind her words chafes at him, and he finds himself baring his teeth, stepping cleanly into her path so he can loom over her how likes. This is the point when most people tend to back down; uncomfortable with the eye contact, his unwavering stare.

“What, you’ve worked with my team for six hours and suddenly you know them better than  _ I  _ do?” 

Her smile is saccharine sweet, the edges sharp, and he thinks he hears his breath catch in his throat when she pulls closer instead, stepping forward so she can jab at his chest imperiously. “I think I know them enough considering I spent the last six hours staying up  _ with  _ them and working  _ with  _ them on a job that  _ you’re  _ supposed to be in charge of.”

“Don’t act as if I’ve been sitting on my ass and twiddling my thumbs.” He snaps through gritted teeth, “You damn well know that I was settling the arrangements for our trip out to the Ice Nation. I know you’re used to doors just  _ falling  _ open for you, princess, but that’s not how things work around here.”

“You’re aware that you’ve overplayed the princess joke, right?” Clarke demands, crossing her arms over her chest. “At this point, it’s just plain lazy.”

He glares at her; his gaze inadvertently following the challenging tilt of her chin, the arch of her neck. The lone eyelash stuck to her cheek fluttering ever so slightly at his exhale. “Well, if the shoe fits, right?”

They’re still staring each other down when the others shuffle into the room, a collective groan going up at the sight of them at each other’s throats once more.

“So,” Raven starts, conversational, “how do we think Clarke is going to murder Bellamy? Discuss.”

“Knife to the gut?” Miller muses, tapping a finger against his chin. “She’d want to draw it out.”

“She’ll push him off a high-rise.” Monty nods. “Messy, but satisfying.”

“I have it on good authority that she’ll disembowel him with nothing but a spoon and sheer willpower,” Clarke cuts in, dry, “but that’s just me.”

“You know, if you really wanted to get up close and personal with my body, all you had to do was ask.” Bellamy remarks, lips curling into a satisfied smirk when that pulls a scowl out of her.

Raven huffs, rolling her eyes skyward. “Well, now that Bellamy’s hit his quota of terrible and inept flirting, can we move on? I don’t know about you, but I have some explosives to build and a grappling hook to fix.”

Pointedly ignoring her jab, he speaks, “As you all know, we’re on a tight deadline. If we don’t get Jaha back here ASAP, Kane could  _ possibly  _ back out on our deal and get another gang on this. Or, word could get out, and we’ll get some competition from the rival gangs on this. If we don’t want that happen, we’re going to need to leave by the end of the week. Preferably, by tomorrow.”

The statement is met by a brief, tense silence before Miller asks, “So, how are we going there?”

“The Ice Nation is only accessible by sea,” Clarke steps in, setting her mug down onto the counter. “It’s built on a bluff, overlooking the harbor. There are three sectors to it, built like the rings of a tree as per their tradition. The fence, which is the outer layer. The town is the second. And lastly, the innermost layer. The Ice Court, where the prisoners are kept.”

“Three sectors,” Raven says, grim. “Three checkpoints.”

“One exit,” Bellamy can’t help but add, his teeth clenching together instinctively. “But nothing we can’t handle. I’ll be picking out a boat for us today, and we’ll convene tonight to see how we are in terms of preparations. If it all goes like how it’s supposed to, we’ll be leaving bright and early the next morning.”

Clarke swivels around to face him then, hands on her hips. “Wait. You’re picking out the boat,  _ today _ ?”

“No, we’re just going to hitch a ride from some carrier pigeons.” He retorts, waving the rest of them off before ducking out of the door, towards the bathroom, “And here I thought you were a little more observant than you looked.”

“I want to come.”

It’s not exactly the cutting response he’s expecting. “I don’t need the company, princess.” He sneers, pushing the bathroom door shut—

Only to be met by her foot wedged in the doorway, forcing it open once more. “I’m sorry,” she snarls, “but do  _ you  _ know the ships that are often seen coming and going from the harbor? Do you know which one to pick to remain the most inconspicuous?”

“I’ll figure it out.” He says coldly, pushing back against the door and forcing her back, “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“But I—”

He slams the door shut before she gets another word in the edgeways, turning at the spigots of the sink so the rush of water drowns her out. Logically, he recognizes that bringing her along would be the smart choice. The  _ only  _ choice, really, considering that they were relying on lying low to get them through the checkpoints.

_ Not that she has to know that, _ he thinks, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Besides, knowing Clarke, she’ll still be hovering out there by the time he’s done anyway. (Knowing her, the likelihood of her staying behind is also downright laughable, but Bellamy still hopes anyway.)

True to form, she’s still there when he emerges from his shower fifteen minutes after.

“I’m not asking,” she tells him, tossing his jacket into his waiting hands before her fingers latch around his wrist, dragging him out and into the cold, “Let’s go.”

 

\+ 

Clarke’s shivering by the time they hit the streets, her fingers still firmly clasped around his wrist as they weave their way through the crowds and towards the docks. 

A small part of him is tempted to shake her off, or maybe tell her that he knows a shorter way, but he finds himself pushing forward so that they fall in step instead. “Relax, princess. The boats aren’t going anywhere.” 

She shoots him a scathing look in return. “What happened to leaving by first light tomorrow?”

“We can manage it without having to sprint our way down to the docks,” he shrugs, casting a cursory glance over at the people milling around the booths. “No sense in pushing our way through and pissing off everyone within a three mile radius.”

“There  _ is _ if it gets us where we need to be faster.”

Loosening a exasperated sigh at the sight of the approaching crowd, his free hand darts instinctively to the small of her back, steering her out of the way. “Wow, you  _ must  _ have been well-liked in school with  _ that  _ attitude.”

She doesn’t reply right away, tensing slightly under his touch, and he’s about to pull away when she relaxes, leaning back into it. “I’ll have you know that I was valedictorian back in high school.”

“A staggeringly accurate indicator of popularity, I’m sure.” He says dryly, watching as another shiver wracks her form. The wind was bitingly cold this time of the year, and he couldn’t help but feel bad about how he was partly responsible for her rushed, coatless exit from the apartment. “You holding up okay?”

“I’m fine.” She mumbles, burying her face into the collar of her shirt.

Sighing, he jerks out of her grip, unzipping his jacket in a single, fluid motion before draping it over her shoulders. She startles at that, mouth falling open to gape as he strides ahead, determinedly avoiding her gaze.

“You don’t—”

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Bellamy huffs, before she can protest any further. “I was feeling warm anyway, and you need your limbs intact for when we head out to Ice Nation.”

She seems to consider it for a second. Then, carefully, she pulls the zipper up to her neck. “Well, when you put it that way.”

He snorts, her fingers grazing his as she speeds up her pace to match his. Contact is inevitable, considering their close quarters, and he tries not to feel hyper-aware of the bump of her shoulder against his with each step, the ends of her hair brushing past his chest— a kind of seamless, easy rhythm. The flitting sensation of her knuckles against the outside of his thigh at the next step; the faint smell of her shampoo at the other.

The crowd eventually thins out as they draw closer to the harbor, and he bites back a sigh of relief when they finally emerge from the packed, cramped streets of the market to the relatively emptier ones leading out. Dropping his hand away from the small of her back, he shakes out his fingers, trying to forget the sensation of her warmth under his fingertips. “It’s just a little ahead now.”

She nods, her chest rising as she breathes in sharply. “Yeah. I can smell it.”

“What?” he says, side-eyeing her with a healthy amount of skepticism, “Don’t tell me you used to get sailing lessons, or that you spent your entire life on boats and out at sea.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Only because it’s unnatural for someone so rich to have that many talents,” he quips, looping his thumbs through the hooks of his jeans, “I assumed that you would have a whole bunch of servants at your beck and call to do your bidding.”

Her sigh is distinctly condescending. “Going to college doesn’t make me  _ rich,  _ Bellamy. You’re not forgetting that I’m in debt, right?”

He arches a challenging brow over at her, accompanies it with the mocking tilt of his chin. “And the only reason you’re in debt is because your parents cut you off, yes?”

The only response he gets is the stubborn set of her jaw, her lips thinning into a line.

He can’t quite help his chuckle at that. “I bet you’re terrible at poker, princess.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t rise to his bait like he thought she would. He turns over to look at her, a snide remark dangling from his lips— only to realize that she’s not even paying attention, clearly lost in thought.

“I knew him,” she says finally, her gaze fixed on a point he can’t quite see. “It’s how I learned how to sail, actually. Thelonious used to take me, along with Wells.” The fondness in her voice is unmistakable, the hard set of her mouth softening a fraction. “God, he hated it. He would get so sea-sick, you know? Thelonious made him stay below the deck eventually, but I liked being up there. He taught me how to tie a figure-eight knot, how to pull all the lines out of their cleats and off their winches.”

There’s something about her expression that he can’t help but feel nervous by. Wetting his lips, he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” she starts, her voice trembling faintly in the air, “I want you to understand how difficult it was for me to come to this decision.” She sighs, stopping abruptly in her tracks. Her hands are shaking, and he watches as she shoves them into the pockets of his jacket before continuing, “Bellamy, listen. We can’t— we can’t let Jaha live. Can’t you see? As long as he exists, there will always be a way for Alie to get back in his head, for a way for the City of Light to exist. The people of Arkadia will never truly,  _ really  _ be safe. Not unless— not unless it dies with him.”

For a second, he can only stare, trying to process the gravity of her words. The words scrape against his throat when he finally speaks, drawing blood, jagged and sharp, “You’ve  _ got  _ to be fucking kidding me.”

“It’s the  _ right  _ thing to do. For the good of our people, for the good of  _ everyone _ —”

“You seriously believe killing _one_ man can stop a flood?” he demands. “You’re seriously so naive as to think that it wouldn’t spread, like a disease searching for a new host? When you cut off the head of a Hydra, two more grow back in place, Clarke. Can’t you see? It’s already starting. City of Light chips were found at the docks of Arkadia just a few days back. Everything is already in motion, with or without Jaha. Killing him won’t make a difference.”

“It’s a preventative measure!” she bursts out, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Even if we manage to retrieve him, and even if he manages to stop this from happening, what’s to say that he won’t try it again?”

“We’re not killing someone just because of what he might or might not do.”

“Why not?” she challenges, giving a tremulous laugh. “You’ve killed someone for less, I’m sure. The only reason you can’t bring yourself to do it is because you  _ know  _ that you’ll be losing out on fifty million dollars. You’d gladly damn the world to hell if it meant you getting your money.”

The words still sting, despite having braced himself for it. Maybe  _ he’s  _ the naive one, really, for believing that someone could see him beyond silvertongue. For hoping that  _ she  _ would be the one to do it.

“There are a lot of easier ways to earn that sum of money than  _ this,  _ princess,” he sneers. “Robbing a bank. Stealing something from the safes of one those mansions you stayed in as a child. Holding someone ransom. If I was really just in it for the money, I would have just spirited the Chancellor’s daughter away in the middle of the night. Taken her from right under their noses, and watched everyone descend into mass hysteria to get her back. That would be a  _ lot  _ easier, don’t you think?”

A beat as she takes it all in, her face blank. Then, with a jolt, she wrenches away from him, her breaths coming uneven, “Wait. You  _ knew _ ?”

“You’re not that good of an architect, princess,” he manages, shaking from a mixture of triumph and fury, “but you make an excellent form of insurance.”

“Fuck you,” she spits out, rage radiating off her form, and for a half a second, he thinks she might actually hit him. “So, what? It was all a ruse from the start? You were going to throw me into the cellar the second we boarded the boat?”

“I said  _ insurance,  _ not hostage. What’s to stop merchants like Kane from turning their back on us the second we give them what we want? I had to find a way to protect us.” He breaks off, the anger from below draining out of his veins at the sight of her tear-streaked face, at the sob she forces back. Still, there’s no turning back now. “I knew that the Chancellor had an estranged daughter. Didn’t need to do much poking around to discover that she was living on her own. In debt. So, I set my trap. And you fell right it in.”

She chokes out a laugh at that, but the defiant tilt of her jaw is pure steel when she finally lifts her gaze to meet his. “God. You’re  _ exactly  _ the monster everyone paints you to be.”

He stares right back, holds it. “I could say the same for you, Clarke  _ Griffin. _ ”

The look she sends his way is pure venom, her boots pounding a staccato beat against the cobblestones as she stalks away, receding into the distance; back ramrod straight and shoulders tense, turning back ever so often as if daring him to do something about it.

But Bellamy’s never been good with taking orders anyway, and so he does exactly the opposite of what she expects him to: He lets her go. 


	2. The Boat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait you guys, but hopefully I made up for the wait with a longer chapter! As usual, comments and kudos are much appreciated. x

**Part II: The Boat**

 

He’s the last to arrive, dishevelled and a little worse for wear from a sleepless night.

 “Don’t start,” Bellamy growls; the ground slick beneath his feet and smelling faintly of salt as he marches past them. The absence of his usual rifle and jacket is making him feel strangely on edge, and the dark shadows cast by the haphazardly stacked crates and cargo containers aren’t making him feel any better either. “Roma, Sterling, Monroe— get everything in order with the boat so we can set sail immediately. Miller, help them with the rigging. Raven, load your equipment. Monty, you’re with me.”

Side-stepping past the pile of duffel bags and boxes thrown carelessly by the dock, he makes a beeline towards the crumpled heap of clothes on the ground— ostensibly his, considering how everyone else was already dressed in the thick, nondescript clothes that most sailors donned.

“Everything is in place and ready to go,” Monty declares, handing him a woolen hat that he reluctantly pulls over his ears. “Well, mostly. Clarke isn’t here yet.”

He busies himself with the buckle of his belt, avoiding Monty’s inquisitive gaze. “She’s not coming.”

“ _What_?”

“You heard me.” He snarls, throwing his hands up exasperatedly. “Princess _bailed_ on us. She’s not coming.”

The pity in Monty’s gaze makes him feel worse than any of the barbs Raven or Miller could have thrown his way. “Did you guys have a fight?”

“Irreconcilable differences.” He says flatly, shrugging on his new clothes before sliding his weapons in place. One pistol, two knives, and the broken remains of a blade in his side pocket. “You have all her plans and sketches on-board?”

“I do, but—”

“Good.” He says briskly, turning away. “We don’t need anything else.”

“But—”

“We’ll be fine,” he cuts in, heading back out into the open. “We can handle ourselves, alright?”

That pulls a sudden, impatient noise out of Monty, his fingers curling around Bellamy’s wrist and tugging, hard. “Bell. Just— _Look_.”

He does, mostly out of instinct, and the sight of it makes his mouth go dry.

The figure approaching from a distance is unmistakably Clarke, her hair streaming out from behind her and rucksack slung over her shoulder. He straightens, the motion involuntary, and in that split second, her gaze finds his, swift and unerring.

 _Maybe it’s the same for her,_ he thinks, _an instinct, more than anything_. Like the earth tilting on its axis towards the sun, helpless to her pull. Metal to magnet, an arrow finding its mark. Drawn to each other and always meant to collide, like stars, leaving behind a trail of supernovas and black holes in their wake. (It’s fitting for them, at least.)

Raven gets to her first, grabbing at her bag strap and sliding it over her shoulder instead. “Took you long enough.”

“I was having second thoughts.” Clarke shrugs, and she’s still looking at him when she says, “But I’m not going to miss out on my cut of the money, so. Here I am.”

It’s a blatant lie, if anything. He’s learned to read her in the fleeting moments, in the small spaces of time they spent together, and there’s no doubt in his mind that she’s only here to carry out her own agenda. The smart thing to do, really, would be to keep her from coming along. To eliminate the wildcard before she threw a wrench in his plans.

Instead, all he manages is a brusque, “Get changed. We’re leaving now.”

She arches a brow over at him, stepping forward to meet him in the middle. He hates it; hates how he knows the exact point of where she comes up against him, the way she seems to look straight at him without even having to tilt her chin. Incomprehensible and infuriating and infinite; impossible for him to grasp.

“I’m not doing this for you.” She says quietly, folding her arms across her chest. “And I still think what you did was a dick move.”

It doesn’t feel like the end of a sentence, somehow, the words hovering between them like a question. “But?” he presses.

“But I know Kane,” she says reluctantly, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “And I know what he’s capable of. So, I guess what I’m saying is that I understand. I understand why you did what you did.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Still. Doesn’t mean I have to _like_ it, though.”

He barks out a laugh, then; relief cracking his chest open and flooding in. “Not a big fan of your mom’s new boyfriend, I take it?”

“Not for the reasons you think.” She says primly, rolling her eyes. It’s such a _normal_ gesture that he feels the edges of his lips twitch in response, suppressing the urge to laugh. “Fine, maybe a little. But also because he’s kind of a pious _prick_ , at times.”

“Could have fooled me,” he replies, mild, and he thinks he catches a ghost of a smile playing on her lips before they’re interrupted by Roma drawing up to his side.

“We’re up and ready to go,” she tells him, pitching a curious glance over at Clarke before turning away. “But the weather’s getting bad, so we might be a little delayed getting there.”

He frowns, studying the grey cast of the sky. “It’s already taking us two and a half weeks to get there. How much longer is this going to set us back?”

She opens her mouth to respond when he feels it— the subtle change in the air. A kind of held breath before someone finally pulls the trigger. He’s moving before he can really process it, pinning Clarke under him as something whistles right past his neck, her shout ringing in his ears.

He rolls off her just as the gunshots start, seizing at the knife in his boot. Someone grabs at the collar of his jacket and he swings out, drawing blood, just as Clarke cries out, “Bellamy!”

The blow still catches at his ribs despite the warning, and he’s about to retaliate when he hears the gunshot; a bullet lodging itself into his assailant's head before he collapses, a mess of limbs and blood.

He doesn’t have to look to recognize Miller’s handiwork, to know that they’re firing from the boat to give them cover. His stomach twists painfully at the sight of Roma slumped next to the body, a spear buried through her gut, staining the moss green of the attacker’s mask with red. _They knew._

“Get to the boat,” he instructs Clarke, slapping his knife into her palm just as another bullet ricochets past them, grazing his cheek, “I’ll be covering you the entire time. Go!”

Unearthing the pistol from his side, he fires off a few shots, ducking behind a crate for cover. Clarke’s breaths are heavy and uneven next to his, her knuckles white from gripping at his knife so hard.

“Hey,” he manages, reaching over to steady her shaking hands. For a second, it feels like they’re suspended in space; high above and away from the chaos. A moment of respite. “Take a deep breath. I’m getting you out of here.”

Her gaze flits from his bloodstained hands to his face, then down to the wound by his side,  trickling blood. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.” He says grimly, sliding his hand down to her elbow instead and pulling her up slowly. “Ready?”

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Ready.”

They dart back out into the open, and he dispatches two of the masked Trikru with several well-aimed shots . The third is on him before he can react, twisting at his arm viciously and sending his gun skittering across the floor. Gritting his teeth, he delivers a blow right across his assailant’s face, yanking the knife from his grip and sinking it into his side. There’s a yelp of pain before the body goes limp, and he pushes him off before getting to his feet, swaying slightly.

Clarke is holding her own- despite her relative inexperience- though he can’t help but notice the nasty gash on her forearm oozing blood, along with bruise across her cheek. He lunges forward, burying the knife into her attacker’s gut, pulling it free with a sick _squelch_ before reaching towards her.

She falls into him, and he catches her before she can hit the ground. Cursing at the sound of her laboured breaths, he slings her arm over his shoulder, keeping her upright. “Did he get you anywhere else?”

Her hair tickles his cheek as they begin to move, staggering towards the boat. “No. But I hit the ground hard when he came at me, and now everything’s spinning.”

“Possible concussion,” he tells her, tightening his grip on her waist. “And some surface wounds, but I think you’ll be fine. We’ll patch you up in no time.”

She doesn’t say anything to that for a while, long enough for him to think that she could have passed out. Then, in a voice so small that he nearly misses it, “He tried to crush my hand under his boot.”

The fear in her voice is tangible, and he can feel her arm shifting against his as she flexes her fingers, as of to make certain that they’re still there. The movement is small, but she still winces at it anyway.

Bellamy thinks about her long, slender fingers, stained with paint and charcoal and ink. Unblemished and free of scars, nails short and neat. Her hair falling into her face as she bends over a sheet of paper, pencil clutched in hand.

“Next time someone tries a stunt like that,” he says, and it’s almost strange how he can pick out the promise in his own voice, “I’ll snap their spine with my bare hands.”

He thinks he feels her smile against his neck before hands surround them, pulling them up and onto the boat.

 

+

The makeshift med bay was the smallest, unoccupied cabin by the end of the corridor.

Monty had stocked the shelves with rolls of bandages and bottles of vodka pilfered from Jasper’s stash, and he finds several first-aid kits stashed in the cabinets below. Grimacing, he straightens to his feet, setting the kit down on the scratched surface of the metal table.

Clarke eyes it apprehensively, legs dangling from her perch. “Have you done this before?”

He can’t help his dry smile at that. “What do _you_ think?”

“Knowing how to stitch a wound isn’t equivalent to knowing how to stitch it _well_ ,” she says, without missing a beat. “If you don’t do it right, there could be scarring, or infection, or—”

Her voice trails off into a sharp intake of breath when he yanks his shirt up and over his head, discarding it haphazardly by the side. It makes him smile, for some reason, and he drops his chin to keep her from spotting it. “I think it’s a little too late on the scars front, princess.”

There’s a beat as she seems to take him in, her gaze roving from his shoulders down to his ribs, finally halting at the jut of his hips. He thinks he catches a faint blush coloring her cheeks before she averts her gaze.

“My wounds are pretty shallow,” he starts, working to keep his voice conversational, “so I’ll be done in a bit. I can work on yours after, so just sit tight.”

She bristles at that, sliding off the table awkwardly before reaching over to unlatch the first aid kit. “I can handle myself, thanks.”

“Is that so?”

Bellamy’s not sure how she still manages to shoot him a withering look with a needle held between her teeth, but she does it anyway. “I used to be pre-med. Before I decided it was time for a career change.”

“Seriously?” he asks, watching as she begins sterilizing the forceps and scalpels and needles with all the efficiency of someone who has done it a million times before, “So, what changed your mind?”

A beat, her shoulders tensing a fraction. Then, flatly, “My mom.”

“Enlightening,” he says, mild, grinning when she rolls her eyes at him once more. “Hand me that needle before I bleed out all over the table, will you?”

Huffing, Clarke reaches for a cotton pad instead, soaking it in vodka before striding over to him and pressing it to his side in sure, even movements. “You’re supposed to clean out your wound first, you idiot.”

He sucks in a breath, holding himself still as her hands press into his skin, lining up the edge of the needle against the cut across his ribs. “I was getting to that.” Then, a little stupidly, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she says absently, threading the needle through. “I’m making sure you don’t add to that scar tally of yours.”

Digging his fingers into the frame of the table, he bites at his lip, fighting the urge to fidget. It’s a little foreign, having someone else fuss over him for a change. “You don’t have to do that.”

The sound she makes is equal parts dismissive and annoyed. “You know,” she quips, “I’m pretty sure the only reason you’re getting these scars is because you’ve been sewing yourself up one-handed instead of doing the rational thing, which in this case, is getting someone _else_ to help you. Just in case you didn’t know.”

He blinks at her chastising tone. “I mean, I could do that.” Then, mostly because he can’t help himself, he adds, “But I also heard that most people dig scars, so. I was thinking that I should _definitely_ capitalize on this situation. Make it work in my favor, and all that jazz.”

The sides of her mouth twitch upwards at that; a half smile. “God. You are _really_ an idiot.”

“Only to you, princess.”

They lapse back into comfortable silence after that, and he finds himself relaxing further with each minute that passes. Clarke’s hands are steady, nimble, and he think he could watch her, just like this, for the longest time. There’s something inherently fascinating about it, he thinks, watching her piece him back together in that even, measured way of hers.

She snips at the thread once she’s done, nods approvingly. “All done.”

Bellamy gets to his feet, careful not to pull at his stitches as he reaches out to retrieve the bloodied needle from her. Their fingers brush, and he thinks he catches her shiver under it before he pulls away, sterilizing it methodically. Her gaze is searing hot against the side of his face, but he ignores it resolutely in favor of weaving a fresh thread through the needle.

“Alright, princess.” He says finally, his voice hoarse and scratchy in the quiet. “Your turn.”

She swings herself up on the table daintily, stretching her arm out before him. “So, should I be worried?”

“Depends,” he replies, wiping at the dried blood crusted on her arm. “But then again, I’m your best bet considering how Monty gets squeamish at the sight of blood and Raven thinks wrapping a rag over a wound counts as bandaging it.”

“Miller?”

“Once tried to cauterize a wound and ended up singeing away most of his leg hair,” he points out, before stepping into the vee of her legs and holding her arm steady. It’s strangely intimate, and he tries not think about her warm breath fanning against his temple. Then, squeezing at her wrist in warning, he slides the needle through.

She makes a small noise at that, lips going white, and he rubs soothing circles in her skin until she relaxes into it, nodding for him to continue.

“It gets easier.” He counsels, pulling the thread tight.

Clarke gives a breathless laugh; the sound shaky. “I’ve never been on the other end of _this_ before. It hurts more than I thought it would.”

“Most things tend to,” he manages, fingers falling into the easy rhythm of it all. _In. Pull thread taut. Out. Start all over again._ “You’re doing good.”

“So are you,” she counters, tapping at the neat row of black running through her arm. “You’re a lot better than I thought.”

“I told you,” he says, a little exasperated, “this isn’t my first rodeo.” And he means to stop there, he really does, but there’s something about her presence that seems to shatter his defenses all at once. “It’s a skill I picked up, when I was a kid. My mom used to make me fix loose buttons back onto shirts, darn old socks.”

Her brows jerk up to her hairline at that, clearly surprised. “Oh.”

“What?” he snaps, a flush rising to his cheeks. The admittance makes him feel embarrassed and defensive all at once, and he can’t quite seem to make up his mind on what to do about it. Why did he tell _her,_ of all people? “Of course, it may seem like _low-brow_ work to you—”

“No,” she interjects, frowning. “You’re— I don’t know. You just have a tendency to surprise me, Bellamy Blake.”

There’s something warm and curious about her words that makes his anger dissipate almost immediately, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from showing. He’s been feared, revered, hated. The thought of inspiring any emotion _but_ that makes him feel as if he’s floating three feet from the ground. Light. Unmoored.

“Maybe I just like to keep you on your toes, princess.”

(The comment earns him a light smack to his shoulder; a hint of teeth peeking through her smile, and he looks away before he can commit the sight to memory.)

 

+

Miller is the one who comes by first, tossing him a slightly bruised apple in lieu of hello.

He arches a brow over at him, pulling himself up by his elbows carefully. “Uh, thanks?”

“You’re going to need it,” he says in between bites, slouching against the door jamb, “Monty’s insisting on _fishing_ instead of eating the ration packs, so expect to see some unidentifiable sludge hovelled on your plate later.”

“Unidentifiable sludge that you’ll gladly eat numerous portions of,” Bellamy states baldly, rolling the apple between his fingers. “How’s everyone else holding up?”

His shoulder jerks upwards at that; a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. “I’d say fine, considering we’re not the ones who got jumped.”

“It was Trikru.”

“Word travels fast in Arkadia,” Miller points out, wiping at his mouth. “I’m wouldn’t be surprised if we ran into more of them along the way. Fifty million dollars is nothing to scoff at.”

“No, but breaking into the Ice Court isn’t exactly a walk in the park either.” He says, reaching for Clarke’s plans stowed under his bed and undoing the binding in a single, fluid motion, “And _that,_ is why we’re the only ones who are going to succeed.”

He can feel Miller’s gaze boring into the side of his face; apprehensive. Then, dryly, “Because we happen to be the most well-prepared?”

“That, and because we’re the only team with your incomparable lock-picking skills.” He says, smirking as he bites into his apple, “You’re irreplaceable, Nathan Miller.”

“I can’t believe you’re turning on the charm for _me_ when you should have saved it for Clarke.”

He _doesn’t_ blush at that, but it’s a near thing. “A princess and a guy like me?” he goads, stretching his foot out to aim a kick at his ankles, “Sure. That’s believable.”

“Happened for Han and Leia,” Miller says, without missing a beat. He doesn’t press on after that, thankfully, shuffling into the room instead and dropping into a half-crouch to inspect the drawings in his lap. “Talk me through the plan.”

Nodding, he unrolls the sheets, laying them flat carefully. “As I said before— three sectors, and three checkpoints. Once we dock at the harbor, we’ll have to trek a little ways up to the fence, which is the first checkpoint. Security is pretty lax here, so our forged papers and IDs should be able to take us into the town. We’ll get a room at a local inn, keep up the pretense of being traders.”

“The easy part,” Miller supplies, rather unhelpfully.

“The easy part,” he agrees, running his fingers along Clarke’s elegant scrawl. “False papers and IDs won’t be able to help us past the second checkpoint, though. Plus, traders and merchants have no reason to be at the Ice Court, so this is where we have to get sneaky. Do you remember what Clarke said about the prison wagons?”

“I don’t pay attention to her like you do,” he grumbles, rubbing at the stubble forming at his chin, “but I remember something about them cutting through the town at certain shifts.”

Ignoring the subtle dig (he probably deserves it, after the last incident involving Monty), he continues, “Two shifts. Early morning, and mid-afternoon. I’m thinking that we should hit the early morning one before the streets start flooding with people.”

“So, what?” he asks, brow furrowing in confusion. “We take out everyone in the van and drive ourselves in?”

“I considered it, but I’m pretty sure the guards at the second checkpoint keeps close tabs on the drivers, so that’s a non-option. I was thinking more along the lines of causing a diversion, and going in as prisoners.”

“If they’re observant enough to know who they’re drivers are, I’m pretty sure they’ll catch on that’s there _five_ whole other prisoners in one of their wagons.” Miller snarks, knee jiggling restlessly; a nervous tic. “Unless we cut five of the prisoners loose.”

“It’s exactly what we’re doing,” Bellamy tells him, smoothing out a crumpled edge of their plans with his pointer finger. “Well, with your help, of course. You’re going to have to get them out of _their_ cuffs, then us _into_ them, and the wagon locked up and ready to go in a pretty short timeframe.”

The look Miller shoots him seems to straddle the fine line between disbelief and exasperation. “Wow. You sure aren’t pulling any punches, are you?”

“It’s my speciality.” He grins, redirecting his attention back to the plans sprawled before them. “Once we’re in, we’ll be split into separate holding areas. This is where it gets tricky, considering Clarke isn’t too familiar with the prison layout. I’m waiting on Monty to get some intel on it.”

“Whatever it is, we need to find a place to reconvene after.” Miller frowns. “Then we split into teams to search the prison for Jaha. I can go with Raven. She’ll take out the guards while I work at the locks. Monty’s not too shabby at breaking and entering either, so you can take him. Clarke can work on our exit strategy, considering she’s _been_ to the Ice Court, and that’s only our way out.”

It’s a sound plan, if it wasn’t for the part where Clarke would be left _alone_ for an extended period of time. It was entirely possible that she would find Jaha first and put a bullet through his brain. He couldn’t let that happen. _Wouldn’t._

“Monty works on our exit,” he corrects, gruff, “and princess stays with me.”

A beat as Miller considers this, his expression inscrutable. Then, a little hesitantly, “She can handle herself, you know.”

“It’s not what you think it is.”

“Look, you’ll just have to—”

“Handle _what_?”

They turn towards the source of the interruption, and he has to work to keep his face purposefully blank at the sight of Clarke hovering by the door, brows raised.

“Handle what?” she repeats, jerking her chin over at the scattered sheets around them. “Searching the cells alone? I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t be by yourself.” He says; the words sharp leaving his mouth. A warning and reassurance, all at once. The lines are always blurry when it comes to her. “You’ll be with me.”

Her eyes flash dangerously at that. When she speaks, her voice is stiff. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine on my own.”

Bellamy shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s already settled, princess. Besides, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I’ll be in charge of Jaha the entire time.”

“Great,” she says tightly, staring him down like she’s seconds away from grabbing the nearest object next to her and flinging it at him. It feels jarring, somehow, the sudden shift from the tentative easiness before to _this._ “Sounds perfect.”

He returns her stare, fingers flexing by his sides. “Good.”

“Good.”

 

+

Dinner that night is an awkward affair, and he tries not to read _too_ much into things when she ignores him for a solid thirty minutes; avoiding eye contact and answering his questions in the coolest, most detached voice he’s ever heard.

(They’re back at each other’s throats by the time they’re finished with their food, and he thinks he hears the _thunk_ of Monty’s head falling against the table, groaning, before they’re yelling at each other once more; their voices drowning out the crashing of the waves and stretching into the night.)

 

+

It’s quiet when Bellamy emerges on deck the next morning; the only sound being the whistle of the wind and the crash of the waves against the side of the boat.

Fighting back a sudden wave of dizziness, he heads towards the railing, gripping onto it for dear life. He has never been out at sea for an extended period of time before, and the constant tilting and lurching of the boat is _definitely_ something that’s a little hard to get used to.

His mind unwittingly goes back to the familiar rooftops of Arkadia at that; Octavia’s laugh bright in the cool morning air. The slide of her worn socks against the uneven tiles, arms outstretched like she’s expecting him to catch her, even from way down on the ground. _Catch me if you can, Bell._ He closes his eyes against the onslaught of memories, forcing them down into a place he cannot reach. Not now.

He reaches for the book he has tucked in the back pocket of his jeans instead, cracking the spine open. He picked The Odyssey this time, mostly because of how apt it was to his current situation. Even with all the years that have passed, he couldn’t quite seem to break the habit of taking a book with him wherever he went.

Bellamy’s thumbing through the pages when he makes out the sound of footfalls against the stairs leading up to the deck, the ground dipping beneath him as a figure appears at the doorway.

“Oh,” he manages, stowing the book away as surreptitiously as he can. “It’s you.”

“The one and only,” Clarke says, wry, before crossing the space separating them with all the grace of a ballerina on stilts. “Why are you up so early?”

He shrugs, planting his elbows firmly against the railing to hold himself steady. It’s _friendly,_ despite their screaming match the night before, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s always going to be like that for them; balancing haphazardly along the knife edge’s of friendship and mortal enemies. Maybe they’ll get past that, one day. Still, this is distinctly a peace offering of sorts, and he’s not going to let up on the chance to play nice with Clarke. “Early riser, I guess. You?”

“Light sleeper,” she says, lifting her steaming mug up at him in explanation. “And old boats tend to come with the loudest of noises.”

He snorts, sweeping an arm out to gesture over at the peeling paint of the hull, the rotting floorboards. “Hey, Vesta has _character,_ okay? She’s one of a kind.”

“You should have gone with the Polaris _._ ”

“Well, I couldn’t have come to that decision without your expert opinion,” he drawls, jostling at her arm lightly. “But if I’m remembering things right, _someone_ left in a huff.”

She makes a squawk of protest at that, hand coming up to shield the rest of her coffee from spilling. “I think you’re conveniently forgetting the part where you basically admitted that I was nothing but _insurance_ to your group’s safety.”

“ _Our_ safety,” he corrects, without really thinking about it. “Still, it’s not much like it came in much handy when the competition arrived. Trikru would have cut your neck regardless of who you were.”

If she notices his slip up, she doesn’t say anything about it. “Green masks. That’s how you tell, right?”

He nods, grimacing when the boat gives a mighty jerk, nearly causing him to lose his balance. “One color for each group. Green is Trikru, blue for Floukru, and so on.”

Clarke looks like she wants to say something to that, her gaze scanning his face with unabashed curiosity, but it’s quickly replaced by amusement instead. “You still haven’t gotten your sea legs, have you?”

“My sea legs are _fine_ ,” he scowls, rolling his eyes when she darts out of his way fluidly, bobbing in time with the rocking motions of the ship. “God, you’re such a fucking showoff.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re _terrible_ at something for a change.” She grins, delighted; dodging his swipes easily. “It’ll be pretty funny if this got out back home, right? Silvertongue, _sea-sick_ and—”

She yelps when he catches her around the waist, the shifting of the ground under their feet sending them off-balance and careening towards the wall. Instinctively, he pulls her upwards to shield the back of her head with his hand, pinning her against the surface with his body; her mug clattering to the ground, forgotten.

For a long, breathless second, all they can do is stare at each other. He can feel the curl of her hands around his bicep; the skin of her exposed hip warm underneath his fingertips. She’s all soft curves and blistering warmth, pressed up against him like this, and in that moment, he lets himself consider the thought of sliding his hand up her top.  Exploring the expanse of skin with careful sweeps of his fingers and tongue. Her eyes are dark when she finally meets his, and he doesn’t miss the way she wets her lips before it drops back down to his mouth. The tension from before is back, somehow, pulled taut and seconds away from snapping.

“Whoops.” He rasps, his voice rough. “Sorry.”

She swallows, her throat rising and falling with the motion. “Whoops,” she echoes, her voice breaking on the word as she leans forward a fraction, their noses brushing, her lips a hair’s breadth away from his.

It’s a bad idea. It’s a _terrible_ idea, in fact, but he can’t seem to bring himself to look away. His mother used to tell him stories about the formation of stars, of planets and galaxies and how it all came down to gravity, pulling them toward one another like a irrevocable, unstoppable force. He never used to believe them; never had to wonder about what kept him firmly planted to the ground. (Atlas didn’t consider the tilt of the ground beneath him when he was holding up the sky either.)

But he’s fucking looking at her, and all he can think is, _oh. Oh,_ and _this is what she meant_ —

The door slams open at that, hitting the wall with enough force for them to startle apart. The look on Raven’s face is disgruntled and suspicious all at once, as if she might have an inkling of what could have commenced if she hadn’t interrupted. The thought of it makes him flush all the way down to his toes.

Thankfully, she doesn’t bring it up, just jerks her chin towards the stairs. “Trust me.” She says, with a shake of her head. “You guys need to see this.”

They exchange mutual, uneasy looks before following, no questions asked; disappearing into the darkness below.

 

+

Monty’s room looks a lot like how it did back home: like he attempted to keep it organized for all of five minutes before giving it up and letting it fall into complete and utter disarray.

(There’s something to be said about him achieving this effect in his new quarters in less than twenty four hours, but Bellamy’s just… not going to mention it.)

Sidestepping past a small tower of unidentified metal parts, he slips into the room. Miller’s already there, pacing in the limited space available, and Monty’s tapping away at his tablet with a look of grim resignation on his face.

“Let me guess,” Bellamy deadpans, planting his hands on his hips. “There’s a bullet embedded in the hull and the boat is actually sinking, albeit slowly. We’re going to have to swim our way to the Ice Nation instead, and the waters are infested with sharks.”

Monty raises a brow over at him. “With our luck? Can’t say I would be surprised. But no, that’s not it.” Then, as if bracing himself, he continues, “Remember how I said I was trying to gain access to whatever files I could get on Ice Nation?”

He straightens, mind already racing through the possibilities. “Did you get anything?”

“No, because Ice Nation is notoriously paranoid and keeps most of their files and records on paper, just like I suspected. I’m still in the dark as to the final checkpoint through the Ice Court _and_ the prison layout, but look what I found after some digging.” Monty says, swivelling his tablet over to face them.

It takes him a second to recognize what he’s looking it, but it all falls into place once he spots the moss green masks dangling from the spikes. The bodies are blackened and bent, too distorted to identify, but he thinks he makes out the faint insignia of Trikru on someone’s arm.

Swearing viciously, Bellamy rucks his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to tug at it. “Shit. Azgeda is going to be hypervigilant now, considering some team from Arkadia just tried to break into their stronghold.”

“Do you think they were sent over by Kane?” Miller presses, his voice low and urgent, “Maybe we’re the backup plan.”

“It’s possible, but I doubt he has a spare fifty million dollars lying around.” He points out, frowning. “No, my guess is that Trikru was hired by someone else. Word is getting out about the City of Light, and they sent one team out to the Ice Court and one team to take us out when they heard we were heading there too.”

There’s a lengthy pause as they all seem to absorb this, before Raven finally breaks the silence, “Well, at least that’s one less thing to worry about.”

“That’s cold, Reyes.”

“What?” she snaps, spinning on her foot to face Miller. “I’m just being pragmatic. It’s one less factor to consider in our plans, and we should adjust accordingly.”

Miller barks out an incredulous laugh, hands raised. “Seriously? You can’t spare just a _little_ —”

“Enough,” he snaps, stepping in between them. “Look, we need to focus on our problem at hand. Azgeda knows that people are coming for Jaha, so they’re probably going to up their security protocol and make our lives a little more difficult than they already are. We _need_ to firm up our plan, and get as much information as we can on the Ice Court layout.”

Monty groans, rubbing at his temples frustratedly. “Well, they’re making it impossible for me to do my job when they don’t believe in electronic records.”

“It’s because they don’t believe in tech, generally,” Clarke shrugs, and he has to bite back a smile when she makes a face at that. A memory rises, the sound of her laugh that night, bright and delighted. _Grounders, and their silly superstitions._ Small and inconsequential, barely a split second, and yet he couldn’t seem to find a way to let it go. He kept the memory of it tightly clasped in his fist, afraid of letting it slip through his fingers. “It goes against pretty much everything they believe in.”

The fight seems to leave Raven all at once as she collapses into the nearest chair, sighing. “They pray to a sacred fucking tree.” She huffs, fingers working at the clasps of her brace with unerring precision. The pain must have been bothering her, even though she’d never admit it. “There’s no way we can get any access to those plans remotely.”

“Probably not,” Bellamy admits. “But, if we can afford a little bit of a delay, one of us can sneak the plans out when we get—”

“No,” Clarke interjects, and he thinks he senses hesitance in the slight slump her shoulders, her fingers curling onto her elbows protectively. “It’s not necessary. Not when I know someone who can help us.”

He stares, and at her continued silence, prompts, “Go on.”

“It means taking a small detour from our original route, but we’re not too far off. Maybe a day or two’s delay.” She glances out at the window, as if mentally calculating the odds of them reaching the Ice Nation by their intended deadline. “He lives on a small coastal settlement a few miles out from here, so. Just say the word, and I’ll talk to Sterling.”

“Wait,” Monty says, brows knitting together in confusion. “Who are we talking about here?”

She releases a shaky breath, flashing them a tight smile. “Roan. Prince Roan of Azgeda, if we’re talking specifics.”

“As in,” Bellamy demands, scarcely able to believe it, “Prince Roan, the guy who was _banished_ from his kingdom by his own mother? That guy?”

“The one and only,” Clarke nods, sliding her hands into her pockets almost self-consciously. “He’ll have no reason not to help us. Or me, at least. He owes me one.”

Glancing over the others, he scans their faces for any kind of resistance. “All in favor?”

Miller shrugs, drumming his fingers aimlessly on the back of Monty’s chair. “What do we have to lose, right?”

 _Possibly everything,_ he doesn’t say, swallowing the words back. Fear was something he could never afford, not when everyone else was counting on him. So, he smiles instead, jerks his head towards the door, “Come on, princess. Let’s go tell Sterling about how it counts to have friends in high places.”

 

+

A few days in, and they start developing routines.

He finds himself on deck every morning, salt water spraying at his cheeks while he skims through his well-worn copy of The Odyssey. Actually _reading_ it feels a little out of the question, considering how he gets lightheaded every time the Vesta lurches or tips unexpectedly, but he manages a few paragraphs, murmuring his favorite lines out loud. It reminds him of lazy mornings at the Dropship, reading out on the terrace when everything is still and quiet.

Miller takes to learning card tricks; making them disappear between his fingers, summoning them from thin air. Shuffling them over and over during the long, boring lulls. Raven polishes her equipment, spends the rest of her time taking apart the electronics on the boat and putting them back together again. Monty builds things out of the scraps— fishing rods and paper clips, tin mugs and the occasional paperweight.

Clarke sketches, mostly. The next time she comes up to the deck, it’s with two mugs of coffee and her sketchbook under her arm. Then, flopping down onto the box next to his, she flashes him a grin. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He takes the coffee from her, sipping at it. She takes it a little darker than he likes, and he grimaces at the bitterness on his tongue before he goes back to his book. “Nah.”

It becomes _their_ morning ritual after that; sometimes spent in total silence, others spent talking. They talk about the plan, and the Ice Court, and Jaha. They talk about how Arkadia always smelled like gunpowder and oil and saltwater. She tells him about Wells, in that soft, hesitant way that he comes to learn means that she’s shy about it. He gives her a list of his favorite books, talks about them until his voice goes a little hoarse.

“Hey,” she says one morning, handing him his mug before settling onto her perch, “so, I have a proposition for you.”

Bellamy glances over at her, swirling his at his coffee carefully (She’s been adding milk to his ever since he mentioned that he likes his a little sweeter, albeit grouchily and muttering under her breath about it whenever she has the opportunity to). “I’m listening.”

“I was thinking that we could try something in between our strategy sessions and general worrying about everything else.” She announces, picking at the stray thread hanging from her shirt. “Like, for instance, you could teach me how to defend myself.”

It’s not an unreasonable request, really, but the opportunity to tease her about it is too tempting to pass up. “I don’t know, princess,” he says, hiding his smile behind his mug, “I think you doing a pretty stellar job as it is.”

She glowers over at him, lips twisting into a familiar scowl. “This is _serious,_ Bellamy.”

“I am being serious.”

“Yeah, as serious as you were when Monty started talking about how tides are actually a conspiracy that physicists invented to one-up the universe.” Clarke complains, bumping her ankle against his reproachfully. “Which is to say that you mostly just tuned him out and snickered every five minutes.”

“I didn’t snicker,” he says primly, pretending to go back to his book. “Don’t mistake disparaging noises for snickering.”

That pulls a impatient noise out of her, nostrils flaring, and he’s about three seconds away from relenting when she speaks, her voice considering, “I’ll cut you a deal.”

It’s an intriguing prospect, if anything, and he works to keep his expression cool and unaffected when he asks, “What did you have in mind?”

She bites at her lip, clearly _nervous,_ and for half a second, he considers doing something stupid, like squeezing her hand in reassurance. “If you land a hit on me, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You can ask me _any_ question, and I’ll have to answer.” The nerves seem to fade away when she continues, though, her voice growing progressively steadier, “But this works both ways, of course. If _I_ land a hit on you, I get to ask you something.”

“That hardly seems fair, considering how I have a significant advantage over you.” He points out, closing his book. “I’ll have you spilling your entire life story in all of six minutes.”

“I’m not _entirely_ inexperienced,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. “I took fencing classes as a kid. I’m just— I’m asking you for help in improving my current skillset.”

(Somehow, the thought of spilling his guts to Clarke doesn’t make him feel as off-balance as it should. Maybe it’s because she has already seen the worst parts of him, has already heard about the terrible things he’s supposedly done. _I understand why you did what you did._ The same way he understood how she had come to her conclusion about taking Jaha out of the equation, about her solution to the City of Light. When you’ve spent your whole life making hard calls, you learned how to stay afloat even with the weight of your decisions shackled around your feet. He recognized that in her, as she did for him.)

“How about this,” he suggests, leaning forward on his elbows, “you get to ask your question if you land a hit on me. I get to ask mine if I land three consecutive blows instead. It levels out the playing field.” Then, at the indignant tilt of her chin, adds, “ _Only_ because you’re probably rusty after the years of non-practice.”

She narrows her eyes over at him, contemplative. “Fine. But only because you had a valid point.”

“Always have to get the last word in, don’t you?”

“It’s a reflex,” she grins, rising to her feet. “Okay, so how are we doing this? With sticks, or hand-to-hand?”

 _Sticks._ He snorts, rolling his shoulders out. “I didn’t have the type of formal training that required me to practice with _sticks_ , princess.”

“Don’t start,” she groans, drawing her arms up in what he assumes is her fighting stance. It’s decent, he’ll admit, for someone whose only experience is from fencing as a kid. “Just say the word, and we can get started.”

This shouldn’t be any different from his usual sparring matches- he’s done it a countless times before with the newer recruits, with Bryan and Sterling and Miller, even- but he’s hyper-aware of the fact that it’s _Clarke_ , and he can’t help but feel a little nervous about it.

Shaking his head to clear it, he forces himself to focus on the gentle, rocking motions of the boat, the way she bounces lightly on her toes. _Treat her like how you would treat everyone else._ “God,” he laughs, eyeing her determined expression, “you would have fit right in at Skaikru.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before she swings out, grazing at his jaw. He twists out of the way smoothly, coming up behind her and sweeping a leg out to knock her on her ass.

“Always raring for a fight,” he finishes, sidling out of the way as she gets to her feet. Then, smirking, “That’s one. Don’t make it too easy for me now.”

She’s pissed, if the venomous look she shoots his way is any indication. Still, she takes a deep breath, calming herself as she sizes him up.

Her next punch goes wide, aimed at his side, but he whirls away before it makes contact, seizing at her elbow instead and pulling her close. She stumbles against him, huffing, and it takes everything in his power to keep from laughing at how _miffed_ she looks.

“Use your elbows to strike in close quarters.” Bellamy explains, sliding his fingers down to tap at the hard ridge of the bone, “It’ll inflict a significant amount of damage, and you won’t have to exert as much force as you do when you throw a punch.”

She slips out of his grip, breathing a little harder than before. “This doesn’t count as the second strike, right?”

“Nope,” he shrugs, and it’s her moment of hesitation that gives him a opening to kick out at her knee, causing her to yelp out in surprise. “Knees are a good place to aim for, too. Vulnerable from every angle, and it tends to incapacitate attackers long enough for you—”

He’s not expecting her to _pounce_ on him, but that’s what she does, coming at him with enough force to knock him off his feet. Years of training and instinct is the only thing that keeps him from stumbling, grabbing at her hips and using the leverage from her jump to pin her down.

“Really?” he pants, tightening his grip over her crossed wrists. “You couldn’t even let me finish my sentence?”

“The element of surprise was supposed to give me an edge,” Clarke retorts, her voice taking on a petulant edge. “Sure, your arms are the size of fucking _tree trunks,_ but I didn’t think you could _lift_ an actual human being.”

“Thanks,” he grins, trying not to appear too smug at the compliment. (She _noticed.)_ “But you’re kind of giving me too much credit here. Physics did most of the work for me.”

“Shut up.”

“I would,” he tells her, amused, “but this is your third strike, and as far as I remember, I get a question.”

Her gaze is wary as she regards him, her chest brushing up against him with each breath. He tries not to focus on her proximity, or the way her hair burns gold under the sun, fanning out on the deck.

She licks her lips, throat bobbing as she swallows. “Shoot.”

He doesn’t even need to pretend to think about it, doesn’t hesitate. It’s the question that’s been bugging him for months now; one of the few things he couldn’t figure out despite the numerous files and intel gathered on her. “What happened between you and your mom, Clarke?”

The noise that leaves her throat is far from surprised. Still, she averts her eyes, staring at the zipper of his jacket instead. “A lot, I guess.” She says finally, giving a brittle laugh. “Where do you want me to start? The part where she got my dad killed, or the part where she’s engaged to the guy who turned him in?”

His stomach gives a nasty lurch at that. “What?”

She shrugs, a small attempt at nonchalance, jaw set and teeth clenched. “My dad— he— he wasn’t on the council, but he was involved in a lot of the proceedings, you know? My mom was angling for a seat, and she was a prime candidate, being the head surgeon of Arkadia. So, yeah. Naturally, he got involved.” She pauses, taking a deep breath to compose herself. “That’s when he found out that someone was embezzling from public funds. Someone from the council. And he thought— the right thing to do would be to _tell_ everyone, so he tried, and—”

“Your mom told the council,” he finishes, his hand reaching up automatically to rub soothing circles at the tense set of her shoulder. She leans into it, shuddering, and he wonders it’s from the effort to keep from crying. “Hey. _Hey._ I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, forcing out a smile. “You were bound to find out, eventually. They charged him with a capital crime, and he was dead within a week.” Her eyes are glassy, but she keeps going anyway, gaze fixed on a point beyond him. “I got out when I could. My dad left me some money and I took up some odd jobs to keep me going in college, and, well. You know what happens next.”

He gives a soft laugh at that, ducking his head. “You got mixed up in some bad company, boarded a strange boat, and decided to embark on a possibly-suicidal mission to the Ice Nation?”

“That’s the abbreviated version,” she says dryly, a small smile playing on her lips. The sight of it fills him with a kind of relief that surges all the way down to his toes, the worry from before dissipating in an instant. “But, uh, yeah. That’s the story. Satisfying enough of an answer for you?”

“Riveting,” he says, pushing up from his elbows before offering her a hand. She takes it, lacing their fingers together, and he has to repress a shiver at the contact. There’s nothing new about her touch, but the deliberateness behind it this time makes it feel momentous, somehow. He forces the thought away, clearing his throat instead. “Wanna go again?”

She grins, wide and infectious, chin jutting out in challenge. “Until I knock you on your ass.” 

He lets himself grin back, raising his arms up to assume his stance. “Here’s to hoping, princess.”

 

+

It’s a week of smooth sailing before the inevitable happens.

“How the hell are we running out of fuel when we’re nowhere close to the Ice Nation?” Raven growls, glaring down at the fuel gauge as if it has personally offended her. “Seriously. Unless we’ve crossed a whole _other_ ocean while I was asleep, this shouldn’t be possible.”

 Under ordinary circumstances, watching Sterling squirm might be a _little_ funny. Still, considering that he has been piloting their ship pretty much non-stop since they’ve boarded (along with Monroe), Bellamy decides to cut him some slack. “It happens.” He says, dropping his gaze down to the map laid out before them. “Let’s not forget that we’re going a little off-course, too. The miles are bound to add up.”

“Of course,” she snaps, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. “It’s not like I couldn’t have figured that out on my _own._ Thanks for the lesson, Captain Obvious.”

“You’re welcome.” He says, mostly because he’s never really known how to deal with Raven’s moods except maybe to ignore them entirely. “Look, it’s not going to be an issue. There’s a port just a few miles out from where we are, so we can re-fuel and stock up on supplies before heading out again.”

“I’ll get on it right away,” Sterling nods, pointedly giving Raven a wide berth as he ducks out of the room.

She holds out for all of three seconds before turning on him; furious. “Is it _really_ a good idea to be wasting more time? We are behind schedule as it is. We should be at the Ice Nation by now, dragging Jaha out by his fucking coattails.”

“First of all,” he starts, “I’m pretty sure that no one wears coats with coattails anymore. Secondly, we’re not behind schedule. Kane didn’t exactly give us a specific deadline, and I’d rather we get everything fucking _sorted_ so we actually have a chance of emerging out of this alive.”

That seems to give her pause, at least, and the look she shoots him after is akin to one of grudging respect. “You know, not too long ago, you would have been the one clamouring to jump in there,” she muses, “no plan, no net. Guns blazing and pistols drawn.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. It’s the Ice Court, for one. And I may think of myself as dispensable, but my team isn’t.”

That gets him an elbow to the ribs, accompanied by a signature Raven Reyes eyeroll. “God, Bellamy. Don’t pull that pity party crap on me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smiles, waving her away. “Go get the others. We should be docking soon, so you guys can go stretch your legs.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay and watch the boat.” He shrugs, rubbing at his face. “Besides, I could use the peace and quiet.”

Raven makes a disgusted noise at that, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of a smile before she strides out, ponytail swinging, “You’re starting to sound like a old man, Blake!”

“Always have been!” he calls out to her receding back; slumping down onto the nearest chair once she turns the corner. The past few sleepless nights are finally catching up on him, and he could do with a nap and some coffee after. Maybe this time, he’ll actually sleep past an hour. Two, if he’s lucky.

He’s marking out the other ports on the map when Clarke walks in, already donning her jacket and hair neatly braided away from her face. “Hey!” she brightens, dropping into the chair across his. “I was looking for you.”

The smile that unfurls across his face is involuntary, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to taper it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she continues, oblivious (at this point, he’s not sure if he’s grateful for it or not). “Raven said we’re docking soon, so I was thinking about heading out to the nearest town. I have to send out a quick letter.”

“A letter?” He frowns, straightening in his seat. “Wait, why?”

“I have to tell Roan that we’re coming,” she explains, her nails tapping out an aimless rhythm on the tabletop. “Trust me, he doesn’t take to unwelcome guests well. _They,_ to be exact. The last time I checked, Luna was with still him.”

There’s a kind of exasperated fondness in the way she says their names, the edges soft rolling off her tongue. He sucks in a breath, tries to ignore the sudden, sinking sensation in his gut. It brings a sour taste to his tongue, foul and acrid. “And you’re sure it’s going to be safe?”

It’s her turn to frown now, brows drawing together quizzically. “Of course it is. Besides, even if anyone tracked us to the port, we’ll be long gone by then.”

“I didn’t mean anyone from Arkadia,” he scoffs, _hating_ the pinched quality to his own voice. “Look— just— are you sure we can trust them? Do you even really know _anything_ about this Prince Roan guy, except the fact that he was banished from the Ice Nation for some obscure reason or the other?”

Clarke squints over at him then; suspicious. “Where’s all this hostility coming from?”

“It’s not _hostility,_ ” he informs her, gruff, ducking his head down to stare at the multiple scratches adorning the table’s surface instead. “It’s called being cautious, princess. You should try it sometime.”

“I thought I was, by asking you to come along with me.” She counters, her voice going stiff, “But if you’d rather stay on the boat, that’s fine too. I’ll just see you later.”

He keeps his gaze pinned on the table, never looking up once. “I guess I’ll see you, then.”

There’s a second when he thinks she might stay— her footsteps dithering slightly at the doorway before it fades away, leaving him alone again.

 

+

Sleep is impossible after that, so he spends the next two hours alternating between sulking and reading. A part of him recognizes that he’s being unfair- that he has no right to feel this way; to be _jealous,_ above all things - but it doesn’t make things easier, either.

Glaring up at the ceiling, Bellamy kicks at the tangled sheets gathered around his ankles, rolling to his feet. He’ll make himself a cup of coffee, drink it on deck, and later, when Clarke comes back, he’s going to apologize.

“I’m a fucking asshole,” he mutters to himself, slamming the door shut behind him. The Vesta is eerily quiet without the heavy clomp of Raven’s boots against the floorboards; Miller’s easy whistle bleeding through the walls. He misses all of it, somehow, even the annoying screech the kettle makes every morning when Clarke gets started on the coffees.

He’s reaching for his mug when he hears it; the muted _thump_ of someone’s footsteps above him. Stilling, he steps back, letting his hand fall away from the shelf. “Clarke?”

And that’s when the window shatters, sending him sprawling to the ground instinctively.

Swearing, he grabs at a glass shard, stabbing out wildly as someone hauls him up from his armpits. He must have met his mark if the sudden grunt of pain by his left ear is any indication, but the cool bite of metal against his neck stops him cold.

“One wrong move and I slit your throat,” the voice declares, accent guttural and foreign.

 _Definitely not any competition from Arkadia, then._ He thinks grimly, fighting the urge to struggle. Faintly, he can make out the footfalls of multiple people coming down from the deck, jeering and laughing and raucous. The kind of noise people made when they knew that the fight was already won. Biting back yet another swear, he holds still instead, waits.

The figures that appear in the doorway are unfamiliar, but not unexpected. Six of them, dressed in bulky jackets and roughspun trousers. He drops his gaze down to the motley of weapons strapped to their belts; the rusted metal and weathered grips of their swords, the occasional pistol. _Pirates._

“Search the vessel,” the man at his ear instructs, jerking his chin, “take the valuables.”

“There’s nothing of value here,” he tries, working to keep his voice innocuous. It earns him a swift cut to the cheek, shallow more than anything, blood trickling down his face sluggishly.

“I said _one_ wrong move and I slit your throat.” The man barks, readjusting his grip on the knife. “Stay still, and I might just spare your life yet.”

“Sure,” he grimaces, scanning his surroundings surreptitiously. Seven against one, with no weapons in sight except for the glass shards on the floor. Great. Terrible odds, really, but he’ll have to make do. “Or maybe I’ll spare yours.”

Then, without further ado, he shoves his elbow back into his ribs, exerting enough force to hear a satisfying _crack._ The momentary distraction gives him enough time to seize the knife from his assailant, burying it into the side of his neck swiftly.

 _One down, six to go,_ he thinks, yanking it free and splattering the ground with red.

He barrels out into the hallway, lunging to the side just as a knife embeds itself into the wall, inches away from his face. He dodges the next blow to his side, parrying it and thrusting his knife forward into his assailant’s ribs. _Two down._ The third goes down when he slashes at his neck, but the fourth manages to disarm him, sending the stolen blade skittering further down the hallway.

Feinting to the side, he dodges past his assailant, pounding up the steps to the deck instead. He’s halfway up when something catches at his leg— a sharp, piercing pain shooting up his thigh before he’s running once more, collapsing on the lip of the deck clumsily before pulling himself to his feet at their advance.

Wincing, he yanks the blade out. Small, dull. It wouldn’t hold up against their weapons, but it could buy him some time, probably. Backing up to the edge of the deck, he eyes the rest of his opponents warily, tightening his grip on the dagger.

The first blow skims at his ribs before he twists away, using the momentum to send his assailant tumbling off the deck. The second catches at his forearm, drawing blood; the next blow coming out of nowhere and sending him flying. He can’t help his yelp as he slams up against the side of the Vesta, his vision blurring, choking on blood and breath—

“Hey!”

Bellamy rolls out of the way just in time, metal striking wood, shoving the dagger up into his assailant’s ribs. The man grunts in pain, writhing as he holds him in place, his gaze darting over to the voice instead—

“ _Clarke,_ ” he shouts, jerking his chin towards the escapee, already thundering down the stairs, “I’m fine. Go after him, he has our _things_ —”

The blow strikes him right across the face, forcing him off his feet, and the last thing he sees right before he hits the water is the sun glinting off her hair; shattering into a million pieces of light.

 

+

When he finally surfaces, it’s to the sound of Clarke crying.

 _I’m fine,_ he tries to say, reaching up to cup at her cheek. It only seems to make her cry harder, instead.

“Clarke,” he croaks, fighting a wave of dizziness as he pulls himself upright—

“Don’t!” she yelps, grasping at his elbow gently and holding him steady. “ _Jesus_ , Bellamy. I thought you were dead.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, the words coming out slurred and clumsy, closing his eyes against the blinding light of the sun, “just some cuts, that’s all.”

Her cheek is warm against his, slick with tears as her arms go around his shoulders; stroking at the nape of his neck, running down his torso. “Where else did they get you? Your ribs? Sides?”

“Limbs,” he grinds out, the world coming back into sharper focus with each breath. His clothes are soaked through, and his entire body _aches_ with the effort of sitting up. “I’m pretty sure they’re all shallow, though. Help me up?”

She sniffs, hands sliding down to his side to pull him up gently. He flinches at the motion, lets himself lean on her as she drags him towards the Vesta, still moored and bobbing peacefully in the distance.

“Did you,” he pants, licking his lips to get some moisture back in his throat, “did you manage to catch up with that guy?”

“ _No,_ ” she chokes out, her breaths coming ragged. “I pulled you _out,_ Bellamy. I’m pretty sure you would have drowned otherwise.”

For a second, he can only sort of stare at her stupidly. “You came back for me?”

She shakes her head, wiping at her nose. “I didn’t come _back_ for you. You— you fell. I had to get to you first.”

“But,” and he can’t really help the scandalized note in his voice now, “the _things,_ Clarke. All of our stuff.”

Her laugh is watery and chastising all at once, and he has a feeling that she would have smacked him if it wasn’t for his injuries. “How about, _thank you, Clarke?_ Or, _you saved my life, Clarke, I owe my life and several orifices_ —”

“Thank you,” he interrupts, pressing a kiss into her hair. He’s not sure what makes him bold at this point; the blood loss, or the incessant beating of the sun’s rays against his skin. “Thank you, for coming for me.”

Her fingers are cool against his feverish skin, grazing at the cut on his cheek, sliding down to his jaw and rubbing at the blood crusted on his skin. Gentle. Trembling. The furthest thing from clinical.

“You’re my _friend,_ you idiot.” She murmurs, and her voice is raw when she tells him, “I’ll always come for you.”

It’s possibly the best thing he’s heard his whole life.

 

+

A quick inventory of their remaining belongings pretty much confirms his worst suspicions.

“We’ll figure something out,” Monty says firmly, wiping his bloodied palms against his trousers. He and Miller had just spent the past twenty minutes or so tossing the dead bodies over deck while Clarke stitched him up, and the effort of it left a fine sheen of sweat against his forehead. “The tech was useless anyway, and I can make more walkie talkies from the spare scraps that they missed. All our papers and plans are intact, at least, so that’s one less thing to worry about.”

“Plus, Roan and Luna will have weapons to spare,” Clarke adds, handing him his shirt. “It’s not something we have to worry about.”

Carefully, he gets to his feet, slipping it over his head. None of it is making him feel any better, really, considering they’re now lacking the equipment and weapons needed for their little jaunt down to the Ice Nation. “Where’s Miller? And Raven?”

“Miller’s scrubbing the blood off the decks. Raven is trying to convince Sterling that we don’t actually _need_ that much components to a engine so she can take it apart and make flash bombs out of them.”

Bellamy can’t help his responding groan at that. “God. Make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I’ll try,” Monty grins. There must be something about his expression that makes him sober just as quickly, though, reaching over to squeeze at his shoulder lightly, “Hey. You know we’re going to be okay, right? We’ve faced down worse.”

He snorts. “Can’t remember the last time the odds were stacked against us like this.” Then, with a grim smile, “But the higher the stakes, right?”

“It _is_ fifty million dollars.”

“And the fate of the world as we know it,” Clarke chimes in, dry. “But we’ll save that for later, since the only thing you should be doing right now is _resting_.”

He arches a brow over at her, already halfway out of the door. “Sure. _After_ I check up on everyone else.”

The expression on her face is positively mulish. “They’re _fine,_ Bellamy. Thanks to you, in fact. Now do you want an escort to your room or do I get Miller so he can throw you over his shoulder?”

“Well, I’ve always wondered what it’ll be like to be held in Miller’s arms,” he muses, darting out of the way smoothly when she tries to pinch at his elbow, “so if you can get _that_ arranged— _hey_!”

“God, you’re such a baby.” She huffs, steering him towards his room with unusual amount of force. “Get a few hours of sleep, and then you can go back to bossing us all around, okay?”

“Only for you, princess.” He drawls, staggering past the threshold to his room.

That pulls a trademark scowl out of her, though it’s impossible to miss the hint of pink in her cheeks as she crosses her arms over her chest, watching him settle into his nest of sheets. “I mean it. You better not be dead on your feet the next time I see you.”

“Now who’s being the bossy one?” he grumbles, pulling his sheets up to his neck.

She gives a soft laugh at that, the sound echoing through the quiet of the room. The kind of laugh that radiates through every dark, shadowy corner of his thoughts, filling it with light. It leaves him reeling every time, grappling for more. _God._ He would die a thousand small deaths every day, just to hear it over and over again.

“G’night, Bellamy.”

 “It’s three in the afternoon,” he says, just to be difficult. The only response he gets is a small _tsk_ on her part, fondness and exasperation mingling as she flicks at the switch, plunging him into half-darkness.

“Sleep.” She instructs, pulling the door shut behind her. And he does.

 

+

It’s dark out the next time he wakes; throat dry and muscles aching.

Blinking, he grabs at the side of his bed, pulling himself upright. His sheets are damp, and he must have shed his top sometime in the night to stay cool. Still, the ground is blessedly steady underneath his feet when he pads out of his room, seeking fresh air, his fingers trailing along the walls as he makes his way through the Vesta.

He’s heading for the deck when he spots the lantern in the kitchen; emitting a faint glow and swaying slightly in the breeze.

Stopping short, he backs up, hovering by the doorway. She doesn’t notice him— head bowed, fingers moving intently across the page. Her hair is frizzing around her face, most of it obscured in the shadows, and he can’t seem to bring himself to look away. Or say something, for that matter. The entire moment feels precarious, somehow. Peaceful. As if one wrong move could shatter it entirely.

In the end, she’s the one who spots him first; her mouth dropping open in surprise as she takes him in. “You’re up.”

“Yeah.” He says finally, clearing his throat. The way her gaze sweeps over him reminds him, suddenly, of his less-than-clothed-state. “I just got up, actually. Couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“Me either.” She smiles, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “And I don’t know if it’s just me, but the Vesta is especially creaky tonight. The waves are brutal out there.”

“Can’t sleep without your fancy noise machine, princess?” he teases, dropping into the seat next to hers. He can practically feel the heat of her body radiating against his like this; the small shiver that runs through her body when their elbows brush.

She sighs, rolling her eyes. “The princess jokes are never going to get old, are they?”

Bellamy shakes his head, mock-solemn. “I’m holding them over your head until the day you die, probably.”

“Which won’t be too far-out in the future if we don’t get the help we need from my friends.” Clarke observes, tapping her pencil against the sheaf of papers on her lap. The lines are thin, messy; nothing like the bold, sharp lines of the sketches he’s seen before.

Curiosity piqued, he leans over, grazing at the corner of the sheet with his thumb. “What are you working on?”

“Just some quick sketches for practice,” she says quickly, the words coming out in a rush. “Forty second sketches, sixty. I’m not planning on falling behind just because I’m not attending classes.”

She doesn’t protest when he reaches for them, shuffling them in his hands. Raven, hunched over and adjusting at her brace. Another one of her with her arms outstretched and grinning, almost as if mid-flight. Monty, smiling into the distance, hands in his pockets. A close-up of his fingers tapping at his keyboard. Miller, a handful of lockpicks in his mouth and struggling to get his gloves on.

And him. Pages and pages of sketches, all of him.

He’s donning glasses in the first few, the same frames that he had worn to her college. Hair rumpled, arms crossed, a dark smudge of what must be coffee against his lip. The first time they met. A close-up of the muscles of his back, adorned with scars and tattoos. The curve of his neck, the edges of his lips lifted in amusement.

The last is of his side-profile, his head bent low over his tattered copy of The Odyssey. She’s captured every single detail, from the scattering of freckles over his nose to the furrow of his brow, creased in concentration. It’s soft. Quiet. Things he didn’t think he could _be_ the second he stepped out onto the streets of Arkadia, into the shoes of silvertongue.

He licks his lips, rasps out, “These are really good.”

“They’re— not my best work.” She manages, shooting him a rueful smile. Then, with a nervous laugh, “But you make a good subject, so. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.” He murmurs, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are blown wide, lips parted, and he thinks he hears her sharp intake of breath when he draws a little closer. “I, uh. I like this one best, I think.”

Her gaze flits down to the sketch in his hand. “That’s my favorite, too. I drew it from memory.”

He can practically feel his heartbeat in his throat, the restless bouncing of his knee. “I didn’t know you were paying that close attention.”

She shrugs, and the laugh she gives is breathless. “God. You’re far from subtle, Bellamy.”

“Huh.” He muses, cocking his chin in challenge. They’re close enough now that the word stirs at the hair around her face, tickling at his cheek.

“Huh,” she parrots, hand coming up to rest at his knee, forcing it still. The heat of her palm is searing, and he tracks her gaze as it lifts; rising from his knee, lingering at his bare torso, and coming to rest at his lips.

Bellamy should say something— _anything_ , really, to break them out of this stalemate. But his thoughts are impossible to comprehend beyond the dip of her chin, the blue of her eyes. Her name, thrumming through him like a prayer. _Clarke. Clarke._

He takes a deep breath, forces out, “ _Clarke_ —”

And that’s when she surges forward, hands coming up to tangle in his hair as she kisses him. He responds instantly, slipping his tongue into her mouth as she moans, hands drifting down to his shoulders instead to hold herself steady.

Her kisses are deep, coaxing. Thorough. Exactly like how he thought it would be. Nipping at her bottom lip impatiently, he slides his hands down to her waist, lifting her up and onto his lap instead. Her legs curl around his waist, instinctive; his hips bucking forward involuntarily when she rolls against him lazily.

Swearing, he tears his lips away, pants out, “Jesus, Clarke.”

She laughs, repeating the motion, causing him to tighten his grip on the curve of her hip, holding her in place. “What?”

“Just— you’re overestimating my sense of self control here.” He manages through gritted teeth, closing his eyes when she begins to trail kisses along his neck, the jut of his chin. “Unless you want me to fuck you right here, right now. In this goddamn kitchen.”

Her hot breath tickles at his ear, and he can’t help the strangled noise he makes when she bites at his earlobe, tugging slightly. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.” She says, burying her laugh into the dip of his collarbone. “Maybe—”

He doesn’t give her any time to finish, grabbing at her waist and lifting her, making her squeak in surprise. She unwinds her legs from his waist when he lays her out on the table, fumbling at the button of her pants before she reaches down and does it herself, yanking it down her legs.

“You too,” she commands breathlessly, reaching for his belt clumsily and tugging. “ _Off_.”

Grinning, he leans over to press a quick, dirty kiss to her mouth, pulling it through the loops of his pants. “Bossy.”

“I could say the same for you,” she retorts, her hands going to the hem of her shirt and peeling it off fluidly. “Boxers, too.”

It’s a little hard to focus on that considering it’s _Clarke_ who’s half-naked before him, her breasts heaving in her too-tight bra and her hair tumbling over her shoulders. He’s half-possessed by the sight of the moles littered across her chest, the pale white scar on her thigh. Carefully, he sweeps his fingers over them, lowering his chin to kiss at the mark above her right breast before applying teeth, sucking hard and making her _keen_ with it.

“Fuck,” she mutters, nails scrabbling at his shoulder blades, her voice gaining in pitch, “ _Jesus,_ Bellamy.”

“You’re going to have to be quiet,” he points out, unhooking her bra and letting it fall to the floor before latching onto a nipple, swirling his tongue over it. Her body shakes with the the effort of holding back a whimper, nails digging harder into his skin. “We don’t want anyone walking in now, do we?”

“I hate you.” She huffs out, tipping back onto the table as he kisses down her body, settling himself between her legs.

He hums in response, kissing at the inside of her thigh and making her shudder with it.  Then, conversationally, “Sure, you do. I can tell by how wet you are.”

“Bellamy, I swear to God—”

Ducking his head down, he parts her folds with a stroke of his tongue; grinning when she jerks instantaneously, her hands going to his hair and scrunching in his curls. “Shit. _Bell_.”

He redoubles his efforts then, easing a finger in and ghosting his breath over her mound. She whines, hips pumping in time with his fingers as he slides another one in, flicking his tongue over her clit roughly. That gets a muffled cry out of her, the sound shooting straight to his cock as it strains against his boxers, and he groans into the skin of her thigh, shaking.

“Bell,” she begs, fingers tightening in his hair and tugging him back, “ _please_.”

He laughs, lets her push his head down where she wants him. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

She lets out a barely suppressed gasp when he finally brings his head back down, sucking at her clit relentlessly and pumping his fingers in her faster and faster until she breaks; back arching and muscles clenching around him desperately before she comes down, trembling faintly.

He crawls back up to her then, smug, planting a kiss against her lips while she writhes under him. Her hands come up to yank his boxers off before sliding down to grasp at him, and he thrusts involuntarily into her hand, biting back a swear when she guides him towards her opening.

“You sure?” he asks, shuddering when she cups at his cheek, her thumb pressing down at the fluttering muscle of his jaw. It’s strangely intimate, somehow, and it nearly pushes him over the edge right there and then.

“I’ll slide a knife through your ribs if you don’t get in me right now.” She demands breathlessly, nails digging into his biceps as he rubs his cock between her folds teasingly.

“Well, far be it for me to deny you.” He quips, before sliding in with one quick thrust.

She gasps at that, muscles quivering, and it takes almost everything in his power to hold still, to quell the urge to just pound into her already. She’s hot and slick and tight, and he groans with it, murmurs, “God, Clarke. You feel so fucking good.”

A rush of heat pulses around his cock, a whimper slipping from her lips as her legs come up around him, ankles crossing at the small of his back. “Move,” she whispers, arching upwards to kiss him, and he does, rocking his hips forward before reaching forward to tweak at her nipple, making her keen once more.

“Fuck,” she cries out, throwing her head back as he snaps his hips into her, making sure to bump up against her clit with every upward sweep, “ _fuck_ , Bell. I’m close.”

“Yeah?” He grits his teeth, driving into her harder and making her squeal with it, “What do you need, huh? Tell me.”

“Just,” her voice breaks on the word, hands twisting into his hair. A plea. “Kiss me?”

He leans down, fusing their lips together. Then, without any preamble whatsoever, he pushes against her, thumb landing heavily on her clit and making her cry out, jerking beneath him helplessly as she comes, triggering his own release.

“Next time,” he promises, once he’s regained feelings of his legs; drawing upwards and pressing one last possessive kiss against her lips, “you won’t have to be quiet.”

 

+

(Raven makes some sort of errant comment about the kitchen’s state of cleanliness the next morning, and it takes almost every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from _snorting_ out loud.

Clarke meets his gaze, lips twitching upwards in the smallest of motions. Then, casual as can be, “Oh, yeah. Bellamy cleaned it up real good, didn’t he?”

He chokes on his coffee, sputtering it _everywhere_ and he thinks he catches a glimpse of her smirk before she saunters out, whistling cheerfully to herself.)

 

+

Things are different with them, after that— and the same, too.

They still bicker over every possible thing, from the finer aspects of their escape plan to mundane matters like who ate the last of the crullers that day. She sketches in the mornings while he reads, and they practice sparring after. The princess nickname remains in constant rotation, and she makes it a point to grumble about the obscene amount of milk and sugar he heaps in his coffee every morning.

Well, except for the fact that they’ve christened the deck, the med bay, _and_ the showers,  everything else remains largely the same. To everyone else, they are reluctant allies turned comrades— _maybe even friends,_ Monty likes to tease, nudging at his ribs.

(Which they are, really. Platonic friends that aren’t opposed to giving each other mind-blowing orgasms, to be specific.)

Muffling his groan into her shoulder, he slides out, flopping onto his back. “Jesus.”

“It’s Clarke, but I’m not opposed to Jesus either.” She mumbles into her pillow, lifting her head as she follows suit, turning onto her back. Then, glancing down at the uneven wet splotches on the sheets, she adds, “God, you couldn’t wait until _after_ I dried off?”

“Sorry.” He shrugs, unrepentant. In all honesty, Bellamy didn’t _mean_ to corner her straight after her shower, but he also knew for a fact that everyone else was preoccupied up on the deck, so he had seized the opportunity. “Though I’m not really sure why _you’re_ complaining when it’s _my_ bed.”

She huffs, sliding her leg over his waist so they’re pressed up against one another; lying in one of the few dry spaces left. “Well, mostly because you’re making it impossible to laze around in post-coital bliss.”

He gives a noncommittal hum in response, working his fingers through her wet, tangled strands. She’s been doing this more and more now; lingering instead of leaving straight after, and he’s _definitely_ a big fan of it. “Technically, we have about fifteen minutes to laze before someone comes down here looking for us.”

“And less than a few hours before we get to Roan,” she muses, tracing nonsensical patterns onto his chest. “You know, this could be the last time we’ll get to have some fun.”

 _Fun._ His pulse trips over the word, makes it a little hard to breathe. A part of him is tempted to say something about it; to tell her about how he liked the after and the before and everything else that came in between, too. How his gaze always went to her first, and how he spent his time without her now searching for her, too. That, above all, he just liked _being_ with her.

(But that feels like an admittance to something _,_ really, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear it himself.)

Turning over to face her, he tips her chin upwards for a kiss instead, deepening it when she makes a little sigh against his mouth. “You’re right,” he murmurs, sliding his other hand down into her wet heat, “we should be making better use of our time.”

That pulls a laugh out of her, and he goes willingly when she scissors her legs, flipping them over so she’s on top. “I didn’t mean _that,_ your horndog.”

He blinks up at her, widening his eyes in mock-innocence. “No?” he asks, bucking his hips against her and making her yelp, her hands going to his shoulders instinctively. “This coming from the person who was _begging_ for it just a few minutes ago?”

Clarke smacks at his chest at that; scowls. “God, you’re such a smug _asshole_.”

“You like it.”

“Only in measured amounts,” she retorts, dropping back down on top of him and resting her head against his chest, right by the frantic fluttering of his pulse. “I meant just hanging out, okay? I like it. You’re— you’re easy to be around.” Then, so soft he nearly misses it, “You’re easy to talk to.”

Bellamy closes his eyes, drags his hand back up to play with the ends of her hair instead. “Yeah.” He admits, twisting a strand around his finger, “You’re the same for me.”

They’re quiet for a little while, her nails tapping out a senseless beat against his ribcage.

“Hey,” she says finally, propping herself up on her elbows. The expression on her face is unreadable. “Can I ask you something?”

He shrugs, tracking her gaze over to the sparse belongings set out on his bedside table: plans for the Ice Court, the shattered remains of a blade, his crumpled copy of The Odyssey. All that remained after the siege. “Sure.”

“Why do you keep this with you?” she asks curiously, reaching over to pluck at one of the shards, holding it up to the light. “I saw you slip it into your pocket the day we set sail.”

The edges of it are brutally sharp. Reaching over, he takes it from her carefully, setting it back so he could wrap his arms around her instead. Theoretically, it’s a simple enough question. The answer rises up within him. Sticks itself in the vicinity of his teeth instead, like it always does.

And yet, somehow, with his face buried against her shoulder and the softness of her lips against the skin of his neck, he finds himself talking anyway. (He’s not sure _why_ or _how,_ but there’s something about Clarke that always makes him want to be honest. To be brave. To be better than the person that he thinks he is). “It’s a reminder,” he manages, his voice shaky in the quiet of the room. She must sense it, because he feels her kiss at his temple, the jut of his jaw. Encouraging. “Of my sister.”

Another kiss, this time just shy of his mouth. “What happened to her?”

The lump in his throat seems to grow exponentially at that, but he forces the words out anyway. “I don’t know,” he says, because it’s the truth. Because he let her go— the girl who had beat him bloody with her fists, the girl who had let her anger warp her into something bitter and destructive and unrecognizable. Sometimes, he thought about the Octavia from before. The one who climbed up rooftops in nothing but her socks; the one who had run to him after school with a baby bird cupped in her palms. The image of her then and the one he had of her now refused to line up. Two completely divergent paths that refused to meet.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, tracing his fingers along the divots of her spine. “Because I stopped looking for her.” His voice cracks on the word, but he keeps going anyway, “She isn’t— she wasn’t good for me, you know? And I think it took me a while to reconcile that. To understand that sometimes, you have to let people go, no matter who they are to you. Sometimes, the people you love are poison.”

Her gaze is soft when he finally looks up at her, her hand coming up to cup at his cheek. He leans into it, breathing hard. “I’m glad,” she murmurs, and this time, the kiss lands on his lips. “I’m glad you did the right thing for yourself.”

There’s nothing he can say to that; not really. So he just tightens his grip on her instead, his thoughts unwittingly drifting to them— to Raven and Miller and Monty and the family he found. To Skaikru, and to the people who loved him as fiercely as he loved them.

It’s enough. It will always be enough.

“You don’t have to forgive her just because she’s family,” Clarke continues. Then, smiling wryly down at him, “I mean, I would know, considering the whole situation with my mom. I think— what I’m trying to say is that I understand. And you don’t have to tell me more if you don’t want to.”

He leans forward, closing the distance between them. This time, the kiss is soft. Chaste. Nothing like the ones they’ve exchanged before. “I want to,” he says, swallowing, before settling back to tell her everything.

 

+

Thankfully, it’s Sterling who comes down to get them when they dock, so they manage to get dressed and ready without arousing too much suspicion.

“They’re expecting us, but it’s probably better for us to stay sharp either way.” Clarke calls out, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as they descend down the steps. “I know for a fact that the people on this settlement are inclined to shoot first and ask questions later, so. Let’s just stay on guard here.”

That earns a eyebrow raise on Raven’s part, though there’s no heat behind her words when she asks, “Since when do _you_ start issuing orders?”

“Since she started wearing her hair differently, apparently.” He grins, reaching over to tug at her ponytail. It was a hasty attempt to get her bedhead under control as Sterling had thundered down the stairs, yelling for them, and he _definitely_ likes teasing her about it a lot more than he should. “What’s up, princess? You somehow managed to sneak a hairdresser on board?”

She swats his hand away, huffing. “It keeps the hair off my neck. Not everyone is blessed with eternal bedhead that allows them to go for _days_ without brushing their hair, you know.”

“Hey! I resent that accusation.” He points out, jogging a little to catch up with her before adding in a low voice, “Besides, it would have been a lot neater if _someone_ hadn’t spent all morning running her fingers through them.”

Her cheeks pink at that, and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at how quickly she ducks her head to hide it from him. “Shut up.”

“To be fair,” he says, deliberately casual, winding his fingers through hers when he’s sure no one else is watching, “I think you have nice hair too, princess.”

She rolls her eyes at that, but the slight tilt of her lips gives her away. Then, squeezing at his palm gently, she murmurs, “Focus, Bell.”

It’s the nickname- affectionate and easy falling off her lips- that reminds him of the gravity of the situation. He sobers at it, squeezing back with equal force. “I’ll be covering you guys the entire time. You know that, right? You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not.” She assures him, turning to meet his gaze. “I just think—”

A sudden shout sends him whirling towards the source of the noise, arms up and braced for a fight. He can feel Clarke tense by his side, her hand slipping out of his—

“Roan,” she sighs; the tension from before seemingly falling off her shoulders in wake of the hulking figure approaching from the beach. “Really? You couldn’t have given us any warning?”

“I was going to,” he drawls, amusement clear in his voice. “But then this one saw me approaching and drew his knife.”

That pulls a impatient noise from Miller. “You were _skulking_ through the trees. What was I supposed to think?”

“I don’t skulk.” He says, in a kind of voice that brooks no argument. Then, turning to Clarke, “Is this everybody?”

“Yes. There’s Sterling too, but he’s staying on the boat.”

“Good.” Roan doesn’t wait for their response; simply starts walking towards the trees. “We’ll leave the others at the village. Luna can watch them.”

“What?” he blurts out, barely holding back an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, not happening. We’re not leaving Clarke _alone_ with you.”

He lifts a single brow at that, sweeping a evaluative gaze over him. There’s something cool and clinical about it that chafes against him, makes him feel snappish and defensive. “Those are the terms. Take it or leave it.”

“You can take your terms and _shove_ —”

“Bellamy,” she interjects, touching at his wrist lightly. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

Throwing one last disdainful look (towards Roan) over his shoulder, he turns to face her, shielding her from view carefully. “Look. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for any of us to be separated.”

“I know.” She says quietly. “But he won’t try anything, I know it. It may not seem like it but he— he’s my friend. Him and Luna both. No harm will come to you guys. Trust me.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.” He says, the words slipping out before he can stop himself. Surprise flits past her expression at that, is quickly replaced by something softer. Bellamy looks away before he can do something embarrassing, like touch her cheek. Brusquely, he adds, “Good luck, I guess.”

Her fingers reach up to brush against his jaw; fleeting, like the brush of a butterfly wing. “Don’t need luck,” she murmurs, smiling. “You’re here.”

(The words stay with him as he watches her go past the treeline; blonde hair flashing in the sunlight before disappearing from sight completely. There and gone.)

 

+

The village is a little smaller than he expected it to be— nothing but a clearing with several brightly colored cabins clumped around it with people streaming in and out bare-footed, their feet sinking into the warm sand beneath them.

“We don’t keep much weapons on hand,” Luna explains, waving a hand over the small assortment before them. “There’s not much to defend ourselves from all the way out here. Roan tends to take care of the outsiders.”

The look that Raven shoots him is distinctly pained. Then, sighing, she asks, “Do you guys have a forge around here? Scrap metal lying around?”

A pause as Luna seems to consider this. “There are a few unfinished structures further down the beach. We never took any of them down, or looked at them too closely. Will those work?”

“Probably.” She shrugs, her hands drifting over to her toolbelt unconsciously. “Just point me in the right direction, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I can take you.”

Bellamy arches a brow over at her, tilting his chin in silent question. The eye-roll Raven shoots in return is answer enough.

“Well, if you insist,” she says, falling into step next to Luna as they duck out of the cabin. The low murmur of their voices trails off as they walk further down the beach, fading into pinpricks of color into the distance.

Tamping down the urge to go after them, he flops down onto the sandy porch instead, glaring at the ebb and flow of the tide. Monty had gone off looking for any sort of chemicals he could turn into explosives, which meant that Miller had to go along to stand guard, which _meant_ that he was alone, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

He’s deliberating the odds of surviving the Ice Court with what they have _now_ when he feels someone at his shoulder, flopping down onto the deck with enough force to make the wood groan in protest. Instinctively, he reaches for the small blade Miller passed him, yanking it free—

“It’s me,” Clarke says, nudging at his elbow gently. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he manages, scanning her surreptitiously for injuries or anything remotely out of the sorts. She looked exactly the same as before, with the exception of the loose strands that must have drifted free from her ponytail. He tucks them behind her ears carefully before looking away. “Was Roan of any assistance?”

Leaning against him, she butts her nose against his shoulder— seeking affection. It’s strange how he’s learned to read her cues, how he’s learned _exactly_ what she means when she nuzzles at his neck, when she tugs at the frayed threads of his clothes. He slings an arm around her waist, holding her close. “Hey. _Hey._ Clarke, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she mumbles, choking out a watery laugh. “God, Bell. It’s worse than we thought. They have different levels of protocol when it comes to break-ins, you know that? Green protocol. Blue. And the worst, black. That’s when the whole island goes on lockdown. We get caught, and we’re essentially _trapped._ One slipup, and we end up dying on Ice Nation territory.”

“I mean, I figured they would have some sort of procedures in place for exactly this,” he points out, rubbing the ends of her hair between his fingers soothingly. “No one said it was going to be easy.”

“There’s a significant difference between difficult and _impossible_ , Bellamy.”

Shrugging, he slides the neatly rolled up sheets of paper from her lap to his. “It’s a surprisingly fine line, actually.”

Her gaze burns against the side of his face; chin tilted and studying him intently. “How are you being so _calm_ about this?” she demands, pinching at the outside of his thigh softly. “We’re leaving for the Ice Nation tomorrow and we have no plan, weapons or _anything_ that can help us, at this point. We’re stuck.”

He slides his finger under the binding, popping it free. Maybe it’s nothing but naive optimism; a blind faith in his crew and their abilities. Maybe he’s just feeling particularly lucky about his chances. Or maybe it’s an understanding that this was what Skaikru was built on: the ability to beat the odds that were constantly stacked against them. The ability to rise above what the world handed to you, and to demand for something better.

 _And when you can’t beat the odds,_ he thinks, unfurling the sheet before him to stare down at the intricate lines detailing the layout of the prison, the familiar loops and curves of Clarke’s scrawl dashed against it; all the information he needed to pull off the biggest heist of his life yet, _change the game._

“Clarke,” he says, feeling his mouth curve up into a familiar, practiced smirk, “I got this.”

 

+

Bellamy’s itching to get going by the time he gets through a third of the plans, but Raven is the one who insists they stay the night.

(“I’m sorry _,_ ” she snaps, brandishing her screwdriver at him threateningly when he suggests making a move by nightfall, “but do you actually _plan_ on storming the Ice Court with flimsy, sub-par weapons? Because that’s what you’re _getting_ if you don’t let me do my goddamned job.”

His responding grunt and mumbling about how he’s pretty sure her staying has to do with _the pretty girl with flowy hair and a penchant for peacekeeping_ earns him a wrench to the face, along with a grease mark that is almost impossible to scrub out.)

So he stays by the fire pit instead, going over the rest of the plans under the rapidly fading light. It’s not the worst, really. No one bothers him, and the lapping of the waves is something that he’s gotten used to over the past few weeks. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints down at the papers, penciling in a quick detail by the side—

The sudden burst of laughter snaps him out of his reverie; his gaze landing on the figures on the other side of the pit. He blinks the bleariness away, has to take a second to process that the figures in question are, in fact, Clarke and Miller and _Roan._

It’s impossible to make out what they’re saying, and he has to bite back a scowl at the low cadence of Roan’s voice— how it seems to pull a small, half-smile out of Clarke, a sharp bark of laughter on Miller’s part.

Bellamy’s deliberating making his way over when she catches his eye; brows lifting as she tilts her chin over at him in question. He returns the look, shooting her a dry smile.

 _What?_ she mouths, and he realizes that he’s been staring the whole time; entranced by the glint of firelight playing against her hair, turning it red and gold, gold and red.

 _Nothing,_ he shrugs, mouthing back, _just enjoying the view._

She catches it, if the steadily growing flush on her cheeks is any indication; her gaze sweeping over him shamelessly in a way that makes his body heat in excitement. Shifting in his seat, he wets his lips, setting the plans aside carefully—

Only for her to be drawn back into conversation, Roan’s palm landing heavily on her shoulder. Beating back a swell of irritation, he drops his gaze back to the plans instead, reaches for his pencil once more. It didn’t _matter,_ anyway. He needed to focus on filling out the rest of their game plan, needed to focus on doing what he did _best._

 _Fifty million dollars,_ he reminds himself, tapping his pencil against the papers balanced in his lap, _and the fate of Arkadia as we know it._ There was no time for blonde haired, blue-eyed distractions.

Dinner is some sort of fish paired with coconut, and he tears through it distractedly while going through the last of the pages. Roan mentions something about there being cabins set out for them, but he ends up dragging his bed roll out to the beach instead. It’s a nice night for it anyway; the skies clear and the moon bright, so he makes camp a few miles out from the others’ cabin before settling in.

He’s half drowsy with sleep by the time he hears the sound of someone approaching; stopping in their tracks at the foot of his bedroll.

Cracking an eye open, he groans at the sensation of the warm body tumbling into his bedroll, jostling up against him. “Seriously?”

Clarke huffs into the skin of his neck, ducking down to press a kiss against his shoulder. “Is that _really_ how you talk to someone who’s here to warm your bed?”

“My bed isn’t in need of warming.”

Her fingers dart under his shirt then, nails grazing at the skin of his stomach, skimming the stitches at his ribs. “You could be warmer. The temperatures plunge really quickly out here.”

“So your solution is to come out here so we can freeze together?” he points out, sliding his finger down to her chin and tipping it up gently, ghosting his breath across her lips teasingly. “Good plan.”

She peers up at him from between her lashes, brows rising a fraction as she considers him. “Well, it seemed like the only way I could get your attention after you ignored me throughout dinner.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he says, defensive. “You were busy with Roan. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“That’s rich, considering how I was trying to catch your eye the entire time.”

“Oh, come on.” He grumbles, rubbing at the ends of her hair so he could avoid her knowing gaze. “You guys were exchanging all these stories and inside jokes. Who was I to interrupt?”

A beat passes, and when she finally speaks, it sounds oddly delighted, “Bellamy Blake, are you _jealous_?”

There’s no point in denying it, not when she’s looking at him like that. He makes a non-committal noise instead, tugging her closer so she’s pressed up against him; head nestled against his shoulder and hair tickling his chin. “Get some rest,” he says gruffly, stroking his fingers down her spine in a fruitless bid to lull her to sleep.

She wiggles out of his grip then, rolling them over so she’s hovering atop him. “ _Hey._ I wasn’t done.”

He rolls his eyes at her mock dramatically, swatting at her nose. “Fun fact: I could be asleep right now instead of having this conversation.”

“Or,” she says, her hands going to his zipper and pulling it down, excruciatingly slow. “I could be making it up to you instead. The choice is yours.”

His mouth goes dry when she draws him out of his boxers, squeezing at his arousal lightly. “Shit,” he swears, hips jerking up involuntarily when she scoots further down the bedroll to lick at the tip. “ _Clarke._ You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” She grins, and he can feel her giggle around him before she disappears under the folds of the blanket, her voice teasing when she tells him, “You’re going to have to be quiet for me now.”

He doesn’t last long— not with her fingers grasping at him; her hair tickling at the inside of his thigh with every slight movement— and he comes with a groan that he barely manages to bite back before hauling her back up, bestowing her with a bruising kiss as his hands flit over the waistband of her pants.

“You want me to repay the favor?” he asks, pressing her back into the bedroll.

She kisses him back languidly, twining her arms around his shoulders before shifting out from under him, settling against her side. “You can owe me one,” she murmurs, nuzzling at the skin of his neck absently. “Can you just— hold me?”

“Yeah,” he manages through the sudden lump in his throat, slinging an arm over her waist. “Of course.”

It normally takes her a little while to doze off but he’s learned that helping her relax always helps, so he slides his hands up work at the muscles of her back, the tense set of her shoulders.

Clarke makes a pleased little noise at it, relaxing into him further. Then, a little apprehensively, “Wanna know what Roan and I were talking about?”

“Depends,” he hums, pinching at her side teasingly. “Does it have anything to do with him and his obnoxious personality?”

“Ha,” she deadpans, flicking at his chest lightly. “Actually, no. We were— we were talking about Wells.”

He frowns. “Roan knew him?”

“Vaguely,” she says, hands twisting and untwisting at the fabric of his shirt aimlessly. “I told you that Thelonious used to bring us sailing, right? Well, our first trip out together was to the Ice Nation. To meet the new queen.”

“Queen Nia.”

“That’s her,” she nods, “and I mean, yeah, she was unpleasant. But that— that’s not what’s bothering me. Wells is.”

She’s told him about Wells before; in bits and pieces and fragments that only allowed for a half-formed picture of sorts. Her best friend, her confidant. Kind and smart and intuitive. Every reference to him sounds bittersweet slipping off her tongue, somehow. “I’m listening.”

“Roan was just— reminiscing, I guess. About the first meal we had together as kids, and how Wells got the salt and sugar jars mixed up. He put salt in our hot chocolates instead, and God, it made Roan _so_ mad.” Her smile is evident in her voice, and he finds himself smiling, too, thinking about her as a kid. “Six years old and already fucking up diplomatic relations, one drink at a time.”

“A true rebel,” he says dryly. She kicks at his ankles in response, the motion chatisiting.

“And talking about it just got me thinking of how— of how Thelonious sent him away after.” Her breath catches at that, lip wobbling dangerously before she seems to compose herself. “Because he found out that it wasn’t really a mix up, not really. It was because he couldn’t tell the jars apart. Because he couldn’t read.”

She’s shaking now, from the tears or the wind, he can’t tell. Carefully, he reaches for her, pulling her even closer than before. Her voice is muffled in the skin of his neck, and he has to strain to hear it.

“For years, he got the best tutors. Went to the best doctors. As if it was something that needed to be fixed.” She snorts, her voice growing progressively steadier as she continues, “Then, when we turned fifteen, Thelonious said he found someone who could help him over at Shallow Valley. I begged him not to, and so did Wells, but he was gone by the next morning.”

He rubs at the skin of her cheek, wiping away the moisture rolling down her face. Waits.

“It was okay, for a few years. Wells had a tutor there who helped him write his letters, and they used to come every month. Like clockwork.” She’s tracing patterns into his skin now, her voice far-off and absent; some place he can’t reach. “Until they just… stopped. He just disappeared. Like he was never there.”

“Clarke—”

“I’m never going to know what happened to him.” She continues, choking out a laugh. “God, and maybe that’s the _real_ reason why I want Thelonious dead. Maybe I don’t really care about protecting Arkadia. Maybe, deep down, I’m just angry. I’m angry at him for doing what he did to Wells, and I want him to pay. And that’s just— that’s fucked up, isn’t it? It’s fucking terrible, and _I’m_ —”

“You’re human, Clarke.” He interrupts, pulling back so he could look at her, straight in the eye. “You’re human, and it’s _okay_ to feel this way. I’m not saying it’s right,” he says, and it takes him a second to realize that he’s parroting her words from all those weeks ago, “but I’m saying I understand. I get it, okay?”

Her lips are hard against his when she surges up to kiss him, and he tastes the salt from her tears before she pulls back, fingers still fisted in his shirt. Her voice is small when she tells him, “Don’t let me go through with it.”

He pulls her back in, presses a kiss to her hair, her eyelids, the cut of her jaw; raining kisses on her until the sound of her crying morphs into a small, contented sigh, her arms wrapped around him like a lifeline.

“I won’t,” he promises, petting at her hair until she finally, falls asleep.

 

+

They leave the first thing next morning; new weapons and plans in hand.

“We made off with a surprisingly good loot, considering our circumstances.” Raven starts off, hefting a bunch of cloth-wrapped packages onto the table. “As it turns out, the aforementioned unfinished structures were actually abandoned bunkers made by doomsday believers back in the day, so there was _some_ stuff that could be salvaged.”

Bellamy pitches forward on his elbows, peeling back the cloth of one of the parcels carefully. “How is it that no one else has picked the bunkers clean yet?”

“I don’t think the island dwellers are all that big a fan of small, enclosed spaces set underground.” Raven points out, undoing the binding and rolling out the fabric with a loud _thunk_ — the unmistakable sound of metal striking against metal- “so they mostly just left it alone. Besides, according to Luna, it’s not like they _need_ much of anything else. They’re pretty self sufficient.”

There’s something about her voice that makes him look up at her; his gaze inadvertently dropping down to the new addition at her wrist. A length of twine wrapped around twice, and a tiny anchor carved from wood dangling from it.

She catches him looking, fingers curling around the charm protectively. “It was a gift.”

“I figured,” he manages, forcing out a smile. And because it already feels inevitable anyway, he asks, “You’re not coming back to Arkadia after this, are you?”

There’s a moment of hesitation on her part, the edges of her lips twisting downwards as she worries at her lip with her teeth. Then, haltingly, “I— I don’t think so, Bellamy.”

It’s not a surprise, really. It _shouldn’t_ be one— not after he saw the way Luna had looked at her, and certainly not after the way he saw how Raven had reacted to it. Still, it makes him feel strangely off-balance, somehow. Like having to orient himself to solid ground after hours and hours spent floating in the water.

“There goes my best mechanic, I guess.” He shrugs, trying for nonchalance. It earns him a scoff on her part accompanied by a punch to his arm; hard enough to bruise.

“You’re an idiot,” Raven sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. Averting her gaze back to the array of weapons laid out before them, she adds, “I got you something. A parting gift, I guess.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, sliding it over to him fluidly. He grabs at it before it flies off the desk, the cool metal digging into his skin as he picks it up. It’s perfectly balanced in his grip, the exterior bearing several scratches and dings that Raven probably tried to polish out. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“It’s a P38 pistol,” she grins, reaching over to undo the safety in a single, practiced motion. “I found it in the safe of the bunker. No bullets, but I made a few rounds yesterday. It’s probably not enough to tide you through the entirety of the Ice Court, but that’s what the other knives are for.”

He turns it over in his hands, smiles at the _B.B_ carved- in notable chicken scratch- into the handle. “How is it that _handwriting_ is one of those things that you’re terrible at?”

“Don’t have the time for it,” she says airily. Then, almost as an afterthought of sorts, she continues, “You should— Kell would be a good replacement. He’s not up to my standard, not yet, but he’ll get there. Stick with him.”

She’s still staring resolutely at the table, refusing to meet his gaze, but it seems like a good time as any to tell her anyway. Swallowing, he ekes out through the lump in his throat, “Well, there’s no replacing you, Reyes. Ever.”

Her laugh is watery, and when she flips him off, he can’t help his laugh. “Don’t get soft on me, Blake.”

“Never.”

“Good.” She says, drumming her fingers against the tabletop. The expression on her face is distinctively contemplative, and he’s half a second away from asking her about it when she continues, “But hey, one last word of advice?”

He snorts, arching a brow over at her. “If I said no, would you keep from dispensing it?”

“Probably not.” She counters, without missing a beat. “Just— You deserve to be happy, okay? I know you don’t believe it. And I know that you don’t think you can. But I think it’s within reach for you, you know? You just have to be brave enough to reach out and take it.”

For a second, he can only stare. “Cryptic,” he says finally, turning his attention back to the plans he spread out across the table— _anything_ to avoid her knowing gaze. “But, thanks. I appreciate it.”

She huffs at his clearly deliberate attempt at playing obtuse, ponytail smacking him across the face as she marches out and up the stairs. “By the way,” she calls out, raising her voice to be heard above the creaking of the Vesta, “you and Clarke aren’t exactly _quiet,_ so I’d work on that if I were you.”

The vicious string of curses he utters in response isn’t loud enough to mask the sound of her laughter, somehow, or the sound of the motor slowing as it begins its approach; the coast coming into view with each passing minute.

His breath catches at the first glimpse of the ice-capped mountains, the acres and acres of snow-encrusted ground. _They’re here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noneofusarefreefromsin.mp3


	3. Ice Nation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure we just won bob the alpha male madness poll, so we _really_ deserve about 20k of fic and a cup of hot chocolate. Enjoy! x
> 
> p.s I may have forgotten how the City of Light truly works, so please excuse me if it sounds slightly non-believable. (but then again, so was the entire plot of S3, so who are we kidding, really?)

**Part III: Ice Nation**

 

The fence- or the first checkpoint, as Bellamy had begun to refer to it in his head- was about half a day’s journey away from the docks. Half a day’s worth of trekking through snow, wind and unfamiliar terrain just to get through the gates.

“I’ll be waiting at Djerholm harbor for you guys,” Sterling says as they troop down the steps and off the boat, zipping up their jackets and lacing up their boots as they go. “Stay safe.”

“You too,” Bellamy nods, sweeping one last surreptitious glance over at the Vesta. The skies are growing dark before them, the sails glowing white in the half-light, and walking away from it fills him with a strange kind of loss, somehow. “May we meet again.”

“May we meet again.” Sterling echoes, before disappearing back into the boat.

He feels Clarke at his elbow as he begins to march forward; adjusting the pistol and knives carefully concealed at several points of his body before asking, “What?”

“Nothing,” she shrugs, tightening her grip on her backpack. “It’s just— I’ve never heard you say that before.”

“What, Sterling?” he teases, bumping his elbow against hers playfully. “Well, it’s because he has a whole host of other nicknames. Ster, for one. I’ve been trying to make Stermothy stick, but—”

“Cute,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, Bell. You know what I mean.”

It’s his turn to shrug now, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know. I can’t remember how it caught on, but we just started saying it amongst ourselves. It’s— an assurance, somehow. A promise.”

“That you’ll see each other again,” she says, soft. “It’s a nice sentiment.”

“I guess.” He says, trying _not_ to think about the time when it’ll be his turn to say it to her. Squinting out into the distance, he changes the subject instead. “God, the amount of snow out here is obscene.”

She gives a small laugh at that, stumbling slightly in the hard-crusted snow before he grabs at her arm, hauling her up. “You’re telling me. Plus it’s getting dark soon, which means that it’s only going to get worse.”

“We should stop and make camp,” Monty pipes up, drawing up next to them. “Visibility will be close to zero by the time night falls. I’d rather none of us break a leg from scaling a cliff or get eaten by wolves, thank you.”

“Wait, there are _wolves_ out here?”

“Welcome to Ice Nation.” Clarke says dryly, before slipping on the pair of goggles that Roan had deemed essential for their trek.

Eventually, they find a small cluster of trees that works as a campsite. Miller insists on building a fire (they’re far enough from the nearest town to keep from arousing suspicion anyway) while Raven hands out the beef jerky, muttering curses under her breath about the texture the entire time as she works her way through her pack.

“So, we’re clear on the plan, right?” he asks, once everyone’s done with their food and are settling in for the night. “You guys know how it goes?”

“Yes, dad.” Miller mutters, propping up his pack so it vaguely resembles a pillow. “Don’t worry.”

He can’t help the frustrated noise that escapes at that. “I’m just _saying_ —”

“Let’s take it from after we enter the prison,” Clarke interrupts, glancing over at him. “After we’re taken in, what happens next?”

“We’ll be taken to the holding cells.” Raven says, pursing her lips. “You and I will be separated from the boys, most likely, and we have to reconvene at the basement.”

“Break out, reconvene by the basement, then search the cells.” Monty recites, ticking off his fingers. “The prison is built in a spiral structure, so Bellamy and Clarke will take the top levels, while me and Miller handle the middle. Raven stays at the bottom to secure our exit through the rubbish chute.”

Miller makes a noise of assent at that, continuing, “Secure Jaha, make our way down to Raven. Exit, then lie in wait until we can _conveniently_ ambush and borrow someone’s clothes. The Ice Court will be crawling with people and foreign delegations- considering how they’re celebrating some sort of festival dedicated to their sacred tree- so we’ll have a fair share of options.”

“Join the party,” Bellamy interrupts, “then make our way towards the exit, which is through the glass bridge. That’s the third checkpoint, though the guards shouldn’t be watching us too closely since we’re _leaving_ the party. Make our way down to Djerholm harbor, and we’re home free.”

“And also fifty million dollars richer,” Miller adds, turning his face away to roll on his side. “Can we go to sleep now?”

“As long as you’re clear on the guards schedules and the different protocols.”

He grills them a little further; quizzing them on the patrol timings (three times a day), the various chiming of the elderclock (situated in the middle of the island, set to chime every other hour and used to coordinate their movements) and the details of their contingency plan (none).

They’re all distinctly grouchy by the time he’s done, so he takes the first shift while everyone else sleeps. He’s not all that tired anyway, and he could use the time to refine the finer aspects of the plan.

He’s poking at the fire with a stick when he feels something graze against his ankle; a barely there touch that has him jerking away instinctively.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “you’re trying to give me a heart attack, aren’t you?”

Clarke’s laugh is low, throaty, and he’s almost _glad_ for the cold that disguises the shiver rushing up his spine. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake the others.”

He can’t help his snort, then, shaking his head. “An avalanche could come on right now and it wouldn’t wake them.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, flopping back onto her back, face lifted towards the night sky, “they’re exhausted.”

“Aren’t you?”

She gives a little hum in response, twisting her fingers in the fabric of his pants and tugging sharply. “Hey. Come on down here for a second.”

“I’m on first shift.” He reminds her, biting at the inside of his cheek to taper his smile at the withering look she shoots him in response. “You trying to tempt me from my post, princess?”

“Only because I don’t want you to miss the view.”

Tilting his chin up, he follows her gaze; breath catching at the sight of the stars above them, dazzlingly bright in the ink-black sky. “Wow.”

“I know,” Clarke murmurs, shifting carefully when he sinks down next to her, shoulders brushing before she reaches forward to lace their fingers together. “I don’t remember _this_ the last time I was here.”

“This?” he grins, squeezing at her palm. “Or this?” he prompts, jerking his chin up to the sky.

He’s almost expecting her to roll her eyes, but she just looks at him instead, her expression inscrutable. “Both,” she says finally, her voice wobbling slight as she reaches over with her other hand, smoothing the hair away from his face. It makes his heart clench in his chest, his eyes fluttering shut automatically. Everything about the moment tastes like yearning, somehow, reaching for something they couldn’t seem to touch.

“Hey,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks away, hopes she didn’t catch him staring. “Sure.”

“Hypothetically,” she continues, brows furrowing together in what he presumes is deep thought, “if the City of Light was gone and— and there was nothing left to worry about, what would you do?” The words are light, teasing; belying the tense set of her jaw, the way she’s biting at her lip worriedly. “You with your ten million dollars, that is.”

 _Use it to keep Skaikru running. Distribute it to the people who actually need it. Hoard it._ Logical, rational answers, overpowered by a roaring, insistent line of thought: _Leave. Start again. Go somewhere else, where it is easy and good. To where you are._

It’s not something he’s considered before. Peace had always been a foreign concept to him; unfamiliar and unwanted in the pursuit of survival. In the pursuit of something _better._ But it was different, with Clarke. She steadied his hand, calmed the chaos in his thoughts. With her, he didn’t feel the restless, reckless _itch_ under his skin. With her, his doubts and fears felt quieter. Manageable. And maybe it would always evade him. Peace was something that he had to earn for himself, after all. But with her, he felt a little closer to it, somehow. A little closer to the future he never dreamed he could have.

“Renovate the Dropship, probably.” He finally brings himself to say. “The place could use a little fixing up.”

The disappointment in her gaze is a raw, tangible thing, pressing down on his windpipe and making it hard to breathe. “A noble cause,” she smiles, turning away. “That’s a good answer. I didn’t expect anything less from you.”

“It is,” he says, fighting the sinking realization that it’s not what she wanted to hear; that it’s not what he wanted to tell her. Not really. “It’s all there is.”

 

+

He spots the Ice Court first— a massive structure looming in the distance, perched on the edge of a impossibly steep cliff.

“We’re close,” he bites out, forcing himself to take another step through the snow. They’ve been walking for _hours_ now; the conversation dwindling from debating various parts of their plan to the occasional grunt of acknowledgement when prompted. At this point, he’s not sure what’s worse: the cold, or the burning of his muscles as he hauls himself up yet another hill.

“I think I can see the fence,” Miller pants, hands grasping at his knees as he staggers forward. “God, who said this was going to be the easy part again?”

“I may have misjudged the distance.”

“And the cold,” Raven adds, blowing on her fingers.

“ _And_ the unevenness of the terrain,” Monty complains, stamping the snow out of his boots.

“Didn’t consider the winds either.” Clarke points out, though there’s no heat behind her words whatsoever.

“If you guys are trying to make me feel impossibly bad, too late.” Bellamy says dryly, kicking up a pile of snow as he powers through the next stretch, “My sister already saw to that a few years back.”

The indignant sound Clarke makes in response would be _funny_ if he had it in him to laugh anymore. “God. I don’t know her, but I want to fight her.”

“You would have fought her.” Monty states, patting at her shoulder. He turns away before anyone can spot his smile, keeps going.

It’s easy to tell that they’re nearing, considering the low murmur of voices and the heavy clomp of boots against snow in the distance. Picking up the pace, he rounds the corner, already reaching for the papers in his pocket—

“Fuck _,_ ” he swears, putting a hand out and stopping them in their tracks. “Do you guys see that?”

A beat before Miller says, in barely concealed tones of horror, “ _Four_ guards?”

“You said there were only going to be _two_.” Raven hisses, spinning on her heel to face Clarke. “What the hell?”

“They must have implemented more guards after Trikru’s attempt.” Clarke breathes, wringing her hands together. “Are they— is there—”

“There’s a pattern,” Bellamy points out, squinting. “See? They’re corralling the groups of more than four people to the side, and going through their papers thoroughly. They probably suspect that there are going to be more gangs coming in from Arkadia.”

“Well, they’re right.” Monty says grimly. “What now? Our papers check out, but it’s not a good idea to have anyone from Azgeda _scrutinize_ us.”

Biting back yet another colorful swear, he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Split up. We’ll go in twos and threes. Miller, you’re—”

“Raven and I can pretend to be siblings,” he interjects, scowling when that earns him a slap to the shoulder. “ _What?_ We can be convincing.”

“I look nothing like you.”

“I don’t want to look like you either,” Miller retorts, rubbing at his arm. “But you know how to be convincing, at least. I’ll just stand by and look sullenly on.”

“Great,” Monty says briskly. “Look, my papers have me under Transport and Shipping, so I think I can pass off as someone who delivered a shipment at the docks. I’ll just say that I want to stay the night in town before setting sail again tomorrow.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, stepping forward. “I’ll go first. Miller and Raven next, then Bellamy and Clarke. See you guys on the flip side.”

He’s gone before they can protest, trudging up the hill and towards the fence.

Miller releases a shaky breath, balling his hands up into fists. “They’re approaching.”

“Monty’s going to be _fine,_ ” he stresses, trying to quell the sudden thumping of his pulse. The Azgeda guards are tall, muscled; practically _looming_ over Monty as they flick through his water-soaked papers. _God_. Bellamy really hopes it doesn’t come down to a fight.

Thankfully, it doesn’t. They wave him in without a second glance, and he can feel his entire form sag with relief as Monty darts through the gates. _Safe._

“We’re up, Reyes.” Miller says, gruff, before they’re darting out of the tree-line; slowing into a casual walk as they make their way up to the guards.

He looks away, resisting the urge to wipe at the sweat that seems to have gathered on his upper lip. Clarke’s fidgeting a little on the spot, her breaths coming short as she watches them, hands shaking faintly by her sides.

“Hey,” he manages, reaching over to squeeze at her shoulder, “it’s going to be okay.”

She glances up at him, lips quirking up into a smile. “I know,” she says, leaning forward to press a quick kiss on his cheek, “because you’re here.” Then, before he can react, “They’re through the gates. Come on, let’s make a move.”

Biting back a stupid, goofy grin, he stumbles after her, composing himself as they draw up to the guards. Up close, he can make out the faint scars that mark them as Azgeda, the various knives strapped to their belts.

The one closer to the gate steps forward, sweeping a gaze over them cursorily. “State the purpose for your visit.”

“Here to make a trade agreement,” he says brusquely, thrusting their papers out carelessly. “So business.”

A pause as the guard seems to consider this; a long, sticky moment that makes his fingers itch for his gun. Bellamy meets his eyes steadily, refuses to look away.

He nearly startles when Clarke’s hand curls over his biceps, squeezing lightly as she beams up at him, cocking her chin delicately, “Well, _and_ pleasure too, actually. It’s our honeymoon.”

The man seems to relax infinitesimally at that, shifting his gaze over to her instead. “Yeah? Why Ice Nation?”

“It wasn’t _my_ first choice,” she says primly. Then, leaning forward conspiratorially, she adds, “I wanted to go to the glowing forest, you know? But my husband is a bit of a _miser_ and he thought this would be the most convenient. Wrap up all our needs in one go and everything.”

“Oh, really?” he says, catching on. “And who’s the one who said they wanted to go to the festival and eat all the fried potato skins she could manage?”

She pokes at his ribs, pouting. “You said you wouldn’t _tell._ ”

“You’re the one who told this nice man over here that I’m a miser.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you kind of _are._ ”

“Young love,” the man says dryly, handing them back their papers. “If you guys are looking for lodging, you should try the Six Crows Inn. My wife runs it, and she might give you a discounted rate.”

“That’s so _nice_ ,” Clarke gushes, and it takes everything in his power to keep from laughing at the _falseness_ of it; the slight twitch of her facial muscles as she struggles to maintain an almost maniacal grin. “I’ll tell her that her husband gave us a nice Azgeda welcome.”

“You do that,” the man shrugs, extending an arm out to usher them in. “Enjoy the festival.”

Sliding his hand down to the small of her back, he steers her forward; keeping a measured, even pace. He can still feel the stares of the other guards’ against the side of his face, flitting somewhere along the vicinity of Clarke’s shoulder. _Not out of the woods yet._

“Bye!” she trills, before they’re disappearing through the gates, melding fluidly into the crowd; disappearing from sight entirely.

+

The crowds are thick, fast moving, and Bellamy finds himself pulling her closer to keep her from being swept out into it.

She tightens her grip on his forearm, head swivelling as she takes in the streams of people going past them, the elaborate displays and storefronts lining the streets. “They’re _everywhere_.”

He doesn’t even have to look to make certain of what she’s talking about. “One at every intersection,” he confirms, disguising the duck of his head by pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the cut of her jaw. The guard turns away at that, gaze landing on someone else in the crowd, and he can feel himself relaxing slightly. “Stay close to me.”

“Like _that’s_ going to be hard,” she grumbles, huffing exasperatedly when a stray elbow sends her crashing up against his side once more. “Come on, we need to get off the streets.”

They push their way free painstakingly, finally emerging from the crush of bodies and onto a narrow side-street instead. She takes the lead then, sliding her hand down and lacing their fingers together before tugging him into the building on the left.

The main room of the Six Crows Inn smells faintly of mildew, devoid of the crowds that they had witnessed just moments ago. Sidestepping a haphazard pile of bags by the door, he forces out a smile, inclining his head towards the woman behind the counter in question, “Rooms?”

“Just one, actually.” Clarke corrects him, going up on her toes to peck him on the cheek in what must be a show of newlywed bliss, “We’re on our honeymoon.”

It’s the right thing to say, really, considering the way their hostess is _beaming_ at them. “Of course,” she titters, fingers skimming at the cluster of keys hanging by the hook before she grabs at one, “you lovebirds must be here for the festival!”

“My husband’s here for business, but I insisted we stop by to take a look.” She grins, patting at his chest affectionately. “Rumor has it that Azgeda runs the best bakeries.”

“She’s not leaving before she’s tried one of your sweet rolls,” he says dryly, sliding an arm over her shoulders to ruffle at her hair teasingly, “I’ve been told that it’s a criminal offence, otherwise.”

“It is if I’m deprived of desserts on holiday.”

“Well, I’m nothing if not a law-abiding citizen,” he says innocently. Clarke barely manages to muffle a snort into his shoulder at that, pretending to nuzzle at the skin of his neck instead, and he has to repress a shiver at her breath ghosting across his skin. “Is there a dining room here?” he manages, directing his attention back to her. “We’re starving, actually.”

“We serve food up on the rooftop terrace,” the woman nods, jerking her chin towards the flight of stairs before them. “Tea is at four, dinner at six.”

Clarke makes a agreeable noise, propping her chin up against his shoulder. “I could do with some tea. And biscuits, preferably.”

He winds his finger around a stray lock of hair, tugging lightly. “Sure, as long as you don’t blame _me_ for ruining your appetite for dinner after.”

“Never.” She says mock solemnly, clutching at her chest, and this time, _he’s_ the one who can’t quite help his snort, kissing at her hair to keep from responding.

The woman shoots them a indulgent look when they break apart; the expression on her face unmistakably fond. “You know, you should persuade your husband to bring you for the fireworks tomorrow night. They do it every year, and it’s a real spectacle.”

 _Fireworks._ He files the thought away for future reference, shouldering his pack higher up against his shoulder. “That does sound nice. Where are they setting them off?”

“From the Ice Court, but you should be able to get a nice view from the glass bridge.” She says, dropping the keys into his palm. “They start at nine bells.”

“We’ll be there.” Clarke smiles, before hooking her arm through his once more. “Thanks for your help.”

They’re up the stairs and heading towards the terrace after another round of polite _thank yous_ exchanged; a cool blast of wind hitting him full in the face as they emerge out in the open. Only a single table is occupied, Raven swivelling over to look as they drop into the empty seats set out for them.

“Took you guys long enough,” Miller grouses, cracking at his knuckles. “What’s with the holdup?”

“Gathering intel.” Bellamy shrugs, rubbing his hands together in a fruitless attempt to get warm. “Everything run smoothly on your end?”

“Mostly,” Raven frowns, drumming her fingers against the tabletop. “The crowds made it a little hard to navigate, and Monty got a little lost, but we’re all here, so. I’d consider it a success.”

That pulls a indignant noise out of Monty. “I wasn’t _lost._ I was exploring our options.”

“Sure,” Clarke says absently, reaching for a biscuit and chewing on it daintily as the bells begin to chime; four clangs echoing through the air. “Alright, keep our eyes peeled now.”

“You know that’s my line, right?” he says, nudging at her thigh teasingly before training his gaze back onto the street, onto the boxy prison wagon carving a path through the crowd slowly.

She arches a brow over at him, her smile distinctly _filthy_ when she leans over to tell him, “Don’t worry. You can get back to being in charge later.”

(He doesn’t choke this time, thankfully; though he does flush a _little._ )

“Wagon is past town limits,” Miller reports, craning his neck slightly. “Trundling towards the entrance to the Ice Court.”

The wagon skids to a stop at the gates, wrought-iron and bearing the seal of Azgeda, bordered by a high, spiked fence surrounding the Court. _Two guards in the truck,_ Bellamy notes, and _two guards manning the entrance._

“They’re the first line of defense.” Clarke observes, as the driver of the wagon hands over a packet of documents. “In charge of checking the paperwork for the prisoners, making sure they’re who they say they are. Of course, Roan says that they’re not all that thorough, but we have to be careful. Try to take the place of prisoners who we bear _some_ sort of resemblance to in terms of height or built.”

The other guard slides out of his seat, heading to the back and unlocking the doors fluidly, revealing ten prisoners seated along benches— hooded, shackled and chained.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Miller swears, shaking his head angrily. “Jesus _fuck._ They’re really out to test my abilities here.”

“If anyone can do it,” Bellamy points out, watching as the guards give a cursory sweeping glance of the prisoners before slamming the doors shut and waving them forward, “it’s you, though.”

“I’m going to have my work cut out for me.”

“It’s fifty million dollars,” Clarke says, her eyes fixed on wagon rolling through the gates, the white lime surface of the towering, impossible structure; the fortress they would be breaking into in just a few short hours, “we all do.”

 

+

The exhaustion sets in only after he gets back to their room.

“Fuck,” Bellamy mutters, flopping down onto the sheets. The bed springs groan protestingly under his weight, sinking several inches lower, and he kicks at it in retaliation.

The small laugh she gives in response is ragged around the edges; weary. He scoots instinctively, giving her room, and she drops down onto the spot next to his without hesitation.

“And that was just phase one,” he points out, reaching over to card his fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face.

Clarke sighs, pressing her cheek into his touch. “Just phase one,” she echoes, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t even want to think about tomorrow.”

“So don’t,” he says softly, and it hits him, then, that he’s going to be sharing a _bed_ with her. For one _whole_ night, uninterrupted. The thought of it is enough for him to start feeling a little nervous. Clearing his throat, he continues, “You can take first shower, if you’d like.”

“Or we can just take one together,” she murmurs, the edges of her lips curling up into a faint smirk. “Do our part for the environment, and all that.”

He wets his lips, swallowing hard. “Well, if it’s to save the _planet_. Sure.”

Her laugh is brighter this time, ringing through the room and bouncing off the walls. He closes his eyes, lets himself savor it. There’s something about listening to the familiar cadences of her laugh- _knowing_ that he’s the one that caused it- that makes him feel as if he’s floating, somehow.

She gets to her feet first, offering him a hand and pulling him up before tugging him to the bathroom.

The space is painfully small, _cramped,_ and he has to keep himself from laughing when she nearly loses her balance trying to get her pants off. It seems easier for him to take them off for her, in the end, so he does— pushing the rest of the fabric down her legs and undoing the buttons of her thermal top. She does the same for him, folds his clothes neatly when she’s done.

“You’re the type to iron your t-shirts, aren’t you?” he says, amused, cranking the shower dial before stepping in.

“They get crumpled too,” she scowls, stepping in after him and sliding the shower panel shut. “You’re telling me that you just put them on, creases and all?”

“It’s a _t-shirt_.”

“Heathen.”

“Princess,” he grins, backing her up against the wall so he can kiss her however he likes. She responds instantaneously, hands rising up to grip at his back and pull him closer.

They stay like this for a few more minutes before she pulls away, pressing one last chaste kiss to his lips. There are droplets of water trapped against her pale lashes, steam plastering her hair to her forehead, and he reaches over to rub at the strands absently. “I can wash your hair for you, if you want.”

She blinks over at him, clearly caught off guard. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he frowns, grabbing at the bar of soap and lathering it between his fingers, “and your back, too. I’m thorough like that.”

Her gaze drops pointedly down to his crotch, brows rising. “I just— I don’t know. I feel bad.”

He snorts, can’t help leaning over to press a firm kiss against her lips once more. “More time for that later,” he promises, turning her around carefully so she’s under the spray, water soaking her instantly, “and if you ask _nicely,_ I might even throw in a scalp massage for you.”

Clarke gives another laugh at that, rucking her fingers through his hair and pushing it off his forehead. “Only if I get to reciprocate.”

“I don’t know,” he says, with a wrinkle of his nose, “I’m not sure you know how to handle a _work of art_ —”

(He’s pretty sure she only kisses him to shut him up, but he’s not complaining either way.)

They spend a inordinate amount of time in the shower; exchanging lazy kisses and helping each other with the hard to reach places. His skin is pruning by the time he gets out of the shower, but he can’t bring himself to care considering how _relaxed_ she looks. She hands him a towel when they’re done, dissolving into shrieks of laughter when he shakes himself off exaggeratedly, splattering her with water droplets.

“You know, I think your work of art needs a trim,” she muses, shifting to rest her head against his chest as they settle back down onto the bed.

Giving a mocking gasp, he dips his fingers under the fabric of her (well, technically his) shirt, tracing at her spine with his thumb. “I really don’t know how you consider yourself an artist when you can’t recognize what’s sitting _right_ in front of you.”

She cocks her chin teasingly, pretends to think about it. “5’10, criminal prodigy and all around jerkface—”

“I’m _6’0._ ”

“— smug and way too reckless for his own good—”

“Recklessness that pays off.”

“A good leader,” she continues, fingers wandering idly from his neck to his chest to his ribs before starting all over again, “responsible. _Excellent_ speech-giver.”

He shakes his head, averts his gaze back to the ceiling. “Miller prepares all my notecards, actually.”

“Caring,” she says, her voice going soft and quiet and feather light, “protective. Has way too many self-sacrificing tendencies.”

Bellamy buries his face into her hair, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo. “Not really.”

“Smart and kind and _good,_ even if he’ll never admit it.” She catches at his chin with her fingers, holding him in place so he can’t look away. “Hey. _Hey._ Ask me what I would have done with my share of the money.”

For a second, he can only stare, bewildered, before he finally catches on. “If the City of Light was gone,” he manages, his laugh shaky in the quiet of the room, “if there was nothing else holding you back, keeping you where you are- what would you do?”

Her eyes are wet when she looks up at him. “I would go,” she whispers, fingers grazing against the side of his neck, his jaw, wherever she could reach, “I would— I would go to where you are. Wherever that happens to be. I’ll find you, and we’ll go somewhere new. Some place we haven’t been before. Some place where we’d both get to be happy.”

It’s an admission, more than anything— one that he scarcely dared to admit to himself. One that he scarcely dared to _want._ He chokes out a laugh at it, at the thought of a life that he could never once envision for himself until he met her.

“I want it too,” he rasps out, his voice breaking on the word as he reaches over to cradle her face in his hands. “ _God_ , Clarke. You have no idea how much.”

Her smile is understanding. Accepting of the inevitable. Still, she tries anyway, “Maybe someday.”

The lump in his throat seems to have grown three sizes, somehow, his eyes stinging when he leans over to kiss her instead. “Maybe someday.” He echoes.

Maybe someday, when they didn’t bear the responsibility of so many other lives. Someday, when they wouldn’t know how loss tasted like ash, and sacrifice like rust. Maybe someday, where they could just _be,_ instead of the people that they are. In a different lifetime, a different universe. A impossibility and a dream.

(He waits until her breathing begins to even out, head lolling against his chest before he presses a kiss to her hair, murmurs a _I love you_ against her temple. Another truth best left unspoken.)

+

The sheets are sticky and damp against his skin by the time he jolts awake, breathing hard; his pulse still thrumming along to the remnants of his nightmare.

Sitting up, he runs a palm over his face, biting back a swear. His muscles are still a little sore from yesterday’s trek, the sudden movement pulling at the stitches by his ribs. He’s probably not in the best form to be doing _anything_ right now, let alone the biggest heist of his life.

A quick peek through the windows shows that it’s still dark outside, which means he probably has a couple more hours of rest before they’ll have to storm the Ice Court. He flexes his fingers, tries to even out his breathing. _Not real._ Whatever he had dreamt of, it wasn’t real.

Then the sheets are rustling, a pair of arms winding around his waist. “Hey.”

He groans, hanging his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Clarke presses a kiss against the puckered scar by his shoulder, trails her lips down to another by his shoulder blade. “It’s fine. Do you— are you okay?”

He rests his hand over hers, twining their fingers together. “I am now.”

“Bad dream?”

“The worst kind,” he mutters, turning over and pressing her carefully back into the sheets. “You should go back to sleep.”

“So should you,” she points out, huffing. “We have the same call time, remember?”

“Yeah, but I work best on two hours of sleep.” He deadpans, curling a loose strand of hair around his finger. “Seriously. I need you awake and alert tomorrow.”

Her hands go up to the nape of his neck then, ruffling at his curls absently in response before sliding them down to his chest. “Your heart’s still racing.” She observes, pulling him closer so they’re skin-on-skin. “Want me to calm you down?”

His laugh is lost somewhere in the vicinity of her neck, trailing off into a growl when her fingers curl around him. “You know, that’s doing the exact _opposite_ of calming me down, right?” he says tightly, hips jerking up instinctively when her thumb swipes at the head of it. “ _Jesus,_ Clarke.”

“I like it when you give me pet names in bed,” she grins, pumping at him as she leans up to kiss him once more, filthy and wet. “This one has a ring to it, you know? None of that _babe_ or _sweet thing_ crap.”

 _Well, two can play at that game._ Pushing her underwear aside, he strokes at her folds, spreading her wetness around before sliding a finger in, brushing up against the spot that makes her cry out instantaneously. “And here I thought princess was enough,” he goads, smirking at her responding full-bodied shiver. “You getting greedy on me?”

“Just— shut up and kiss me already,” she ekes out, biting at his lower lip almost painfully when he sinks another finger in, walls fluttering around him as he breathes a litany of _princess_ and _good girl_ against her ear.

Her fingers scrabble at the sheets when she comes, head thrown back and keening with it. He draws back, tries not to appear _too_ smug as he licks his fingers off.

She watches him, clearly still a little dazed from the orgasm. “ _Fuck_. You’re stupidly good at that.”

He shrugs, kissing at her shoulder before ducking lower, letting his breath fan over the soft skin of her stomach. “I can do better.”

Her hands twist almost painfully in his hair when he starts to pull at her underwear, jerking him back up. “Not now, Bell. It’s your turn.”

“I’m—”

But Clarke’s already flipping them over, straddling at his waist and keeping him pinned onto the bed. “Is this good?”

“I’m not complaining,” he points out, watching the sway of her breasts before she sinks down on him, making him groan; soft and hot and fucking _perfect._

She fucks him like this, one hand braced on the headboard and the other circling at her clit. This time, she comes when he pulls himself up from his elbows, changing the angle of his thrusts and biting at her breast, making her _scream_ with it before he’s flipping them over again and driving into her until he’s coming, too.

Her hands remain stubbornly curled over his shoulders when he pulls out, refusing to let him go far. He can’t help but laugh at it, giving her a long, languid kiss before settling onto his side, head resting in the space between her breasts.

“Tell me you’re not feeling a lot more relaxed now,” she declares, her voice already muzzy with sleep, hands combing through his hair.

“Oh, yeah,” he teases, patting at her hip. “Peachy, considering you just fucked my brains out.”

“You’re welcome.”

He laces their fingers together, brings them up to kiss at her knuckles. “Thank you. I’m— I’m not sure if I’ve said that to you before.”

“Yeah, you have.” She frowns, nails ghosting across his scalp lightly. “After you were thrown overboard.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he mumbles, releasing a shaky breath, brings himself to say, “I meant— everything, okay? Thank you for everything. For giving me a second chance, after I told you the truth. For saving my life not _once,_ but on multiple counts. For believing in me, even when it was fucking hard to.” He nudges at her hand before ducking down and hiding his face in her hip; suddenly embarrassed. “I just wanted to tell you now, I guess. While I still got the chance to.”

She rucks her fingers through his hair once more, hand sliding down to cup at his jaw, fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Yeah,” she breathes, nodding, “I feel the same too, Bellamy.” (He closes his eyes, tries not to think about how it sounds like she’s saying something entirely different instead.)

“Sometimes I think about how different everything would have been if I didn’t get on the Vesta,” she continues then, swallowing hard. “And I just— I would have crawled home to my mother, probably. Become whoever she wanted me to be. I’d be working on the council, and married to someone like Finn Collins, and be fucking miserable throughout.”

“At least there’s a higher chance of you _not_ coming back to Arkadia in a body bag.”

“Well, I’d take those odds,” she says fiercely, turning to face him. “I’m not going backwards, Bellamy. If I’m dying, it’s on my own fucking terms. Not anyone else’s. Not my mom, or yours, or Ice Nation’s. _Mine._ ”

(It’s possibly the most reckless and stupid thing she has ever said to him. It’s, also, possibly, the _hottest_ thing she has ever said to him.)

He surges up to kiss her then, muffling her laugh against his mouth. “You’re really hot when you’re all bossy,” he mumbles, thumb landing against her clit and making her gasp in delight. “Shit. Fucking unbelievable.”

“ _You’re_ the one who finds it hot,” she snorts, giving a sigh of relief when he slots his knee between her legs, pressing down, “ _that’s_ unbelievable.”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to argue with me about this when you’re literally rutting against my leg right now.”

“ _I_ can’t believe—”

The sudden thump through the walls startles them apart, Miller’s voice coming through loud and clear, “Will it _kill_ you assholes to be quiet?”

There’s a moment of shocked, horrified silence before they both burst into laughter at the same time; explosive and a little hysterical, too— Clarke pressing her palm over his mouth to quieten him, her teeth biting against her lower lip as her shoulders shake with the effort of staying quiet.

“Sorry, man.” He calls out, knocking against the wall twice before easing back onto the bed, arms going around her instinctively.

“We should—” she hiccups, another breathy laugh escaping as she nuzzles at his chest, “we should probably go to sleep before Miller kills us.”

“Sound plan.” He murmurs against her hair, drowsiness seeping in as they fall back into a easy, companionable silence. “See you tomorrow, princess.”

A beat, her voice catching on the word when she finally speaks, “Tomorrow, Bellamy.”

 

+

There was a small window of opportunity when it came to hijacking the prison wagon. Too close to the town, and someone might spot them. Too close to the Ice Court, and their ruse would be discovered before they got through the gates.

In the end, it had all boiled down to the small stretch of road leading up to the Court— surrounded by a stand of trees to give them cover and relatively deserted.

“Three minutes,” Raven whispers, knee jiggling restlessly before her; all of them barely shielded by a small outcropping of rocks by the road. “How’s Monty doing?”

Bellamy chances a quick peek. “Good, I think.”

“You think?” Miller hisses, strapping his gloves on fluidly. “The wagon is coming by any minute now, and _nothing’s_ happening. He made that solution from whatever crap he could salvage from Luna’s island— it’s hardly up to his usual standard.”

“Have a little faith.”

That pulls a snort out of him. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s a lot of that going around right now.”

“We’re _fine_ ,” Clarke insists, reaching over to squeeze at Miller’s shoulder in reassurance. “See?”

A series of pops, and the thick red fir tree that Monty had been working on collapses with a almighty groan, roots curling and withering in the air. To the untrained eye, it looked as if the tree had fell from disease, blocking the road ahead to the Court. A diversion that would buy them a few minutes, at least.

“C’mon!” Bellamy snarls, waving Monty over as he pockets the vial, scurrying back to their hiding place and dropping into a crouch with bated breath— the tell-tale sound of wheels crunching through ice rumbling past them barely a few seconds after.

The wagon comes to a shrieking halt at the sight of the tree, vigorous cursing drifting out from the windows. A beat before the doors are flung open, the guards sliding out of their seats and stepping out onto the road.

They dart out into the open, then, Miller leading the charge. His hands are steady as he grabs at the padlock, lockpicks twirling between his fingers as it springs open soundlessly in a matter of seconds.

“Move, _move!_ ” Raven growls, shoving the deadbolt aside before pulling the doors open.

He counts fifteen prisoners this time; hooded, shackled, and chained, like they expected. The two prisoners on the far-left should work for Clarke and Raven, while the ones closest to the doors should work fine for them. He jerks his chin towards the selected targets, stands aside so Miller can work on their chains.

There’s a cry of alarm as Miller reaches for one of them, unlocking their shackles easily. “What’s happening?”

“ _Shof op,_ ” Clarke says sharply, yanking the prisoner to his feet. Then, “Move.”

The Trigedasleng seems to have worked their effect on the prisoners, at least, most of them falling into uneasy silence at the instruction. Carefully, Bellamy unloads the prisoners, leading them back to the outcropping of rocks before Monty knocks them out with his latest concoction.

“How long will it last?” Bellamy asks, yanking the hoods off their heads. Two females, a little on the older side, one pale and one dark. _Good._ Four males, one young and three old, all of them pale-skinned and light-haired. Biting back a curse, he rolls them closer towards the rocks, shielding them from view. _Nothing they can do about that now._

“They’ll most likely be out cold for the next three hours,” Monty whispers, both of them breaking into a light jog back towards the wagon. The exterior of it sways slightly as the door up front is slammed shut, one of the guards emerging with a heavy coil of rope. “Fuck. Okay, let’s speed up. Get into the wagon, I’ll get the padlock and deadbolt.”

Raven and Clarke are locked into place by the time he gets back, Miller pushing him none-too-gently into his seat. “Stay still,” he huffs, locking his legs into place. “These assholes are moving a lot faster than I thought.”

“We’re doing fine,” Bellamy manages, repressing the urge to flinch as the shackles click into place, rendering him immobile. “You got this.”

He meets Clarke’s gaze- one last glimpse of ocean blue, of comfort- before the hood is pulled over his head, plunging him into half-darkness.

Distantly, he can make out the sound of Miller pushing open the door to let Monty in- a trick involving removing the hinges of the door, something Miller liked to utilize when the locks were too complicated- before he’s locking him in place, right next to Bellamy. All that was left to do now was to replace the hinges, and wait for Miller to lock himself in, too.

Monty’s breathing is ragged next to him, his arm trembling faintly, “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“They’ve hitched the horse back in place.” He whispers. “Which means our time is up.”

In the dim light, he can make out Miller fumbling slightly, re-attaching the screws back into place. “He has this.”

“What happens if someone pulls at the door, and it comes undone? _Miller_ —”

“He knows what he’s doing.” He cuts in brusquely, trying to ignore the sticky sensation of sweat pooling against the back of his neck, in the crevice of his collarbone. “ _Trust_ him. If not, trust _me_.”

Footsteps by the right side of the wagon, getting louder with each passing minute. A _ping,_ the sound of a screw hitting the floor, followed by Miller’s muffled swear. He holds his breath, nails digging into the skin of his palm—

The door gives a sudden jerk, padlock rattling once. Vaguely, Bellamy can make out the form of Miller’s hand braced against the loose hinge, holding it in place. Monty is seated ramrod straight next to him, poised for a fight.

Then, a shout, “ _Hogeda clear_!”

Another shout, the footsteps fading away. Carefully, Miller fixes the screw back on before bustling back into the spot next to his, chains and shackles clicking into place in succession.

“Close call,” he remarks after a beat, jostling his elbow against his lightly.

There’s a pause, long enough for Bellamy to start _worrying_ before Miller grunts something out in response, sounding positively mullish, “Close calls are my speciality, you jackass.”

He can’t quite help a half-smile at that; a moment of relief before the ground begins to shudder beneath them, the wagon moving along the icy terrain once more.

 

+

The wagon comes to a halt at eight bells, jerking into a sudden stop and causing him to lurch unsteadily in his seat.

“I think we’re here,” Monty whispers, his voice barely discernable over the chorus of voices; a rapid exchange of Trigedasleng and other foreign languages, growing in pitch and fervor as the doors are yanked open roughly.

“ _Shof op!_ ” A voice barks, straining to be heard over the relentless chiming. More muttering in Trigedasleng (unrecognizable to Bellamy’s ears, considering his refusal to learn the language), followed by a loud, scraping noise as his chains are unlocked. Someone pushes at his shoulders roughly then, easing him down a ramp and out into the open.

Squinting through the dark confines of his hood, he thinks he makes out the familiar arch of the Ice Court’s gate, the white-marble exterior of the building. He’s contemplating if he should lift his head to check for guards stationed above when someone grabs at his hood, pulling it free.

He blinks, eyes watering when the light hits his eyes. They’re standing in the courtyard where they had watched the guards unload the prisoners just a day ago, the archway to the prison complex looming before them. Just ahead, two guards are rifling through a stack of papers, trying to match up the identities of the prisoners to the group before them.

His gaze catches on a flash of blonde, his body turning towards it instinctively. _Clarke_.

She’s a few feet away from him, already herded into the line of girls making their way into the prison. Jaw set, chin lifted, fucking _defiant._ As if three seconds away from making a calculated decision to bust herself out. (Bellamy wouldn’t have expected anything less, really.)

 _Look at me,_ he finds himself thinking despite himself, watching as she draws closer and closer to the archway, seconds away from disappearing from sight _. Just once._ The thought of watching her walk away fills him with a discomforting sense of loneliness, somehow; as if the world had rearranged itself below his feet, leaving him to adapt to it without the comforting weight of her hand in his.

It’s undeniable, at this point, that he’s grown to rely on her. To trust her. To like having her near. He didn’t want to go back to seeing the world as he did when he wasn’t with her— the faintest hint of light through a cracked window felt like nothing compared to the whole goddamned sky.

As if sensing him, she turns over to look, meeting his gaze. Holding it. He can feel his pulse steady in response, straightening to his feet instinctively. _It’s okay. It was going to be okay._ A tether pulling him back from the dark, back onto his feet.

A raised voice snaps him out of his reverie, his attention diverting over to the source instead. There’s clearly some sort of argument going on between the guard driving the wagon and the one by the gate, one of them gesturing wildly over to the line of prisoners. Straining to make out the conversation, he shuffles ahead, catching snatches of it in the breeze.

“— the papers here say that there are supposed to be three _white_ males.”

“The papers must be out of order, then.”

A impatient noise, a _tsk_ on the part of the other. “What now?”

Bellamy can practically _feel_ the weight of the guards’ stares against his cheek at this point, cautious and considering. He bows his head lower, plays his part.

Then, a sigh. “Go on. Take them to the east block and let the next shift sort them out.”

Resisting the urge to pump his fist at that, he bites back a smile, risks a glance at Miller instead. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a smirk before he turns his face forward, allowing himself to be led through the doors to the prison. The beauty of numerous fail-safes and layers of security meant that guards often got complacent or reliant on someone else to clean up their messes. A risk, definitely, but a calculated one that paid off.

They’re led into a chamber, the ground slick beneath their feet from the ice melting off their boots. Two doorways, both leading to a flight of stairs and a metal walkway that- as Clarke had indicated on the plans- would lead them to their cells.

He tilts his head back, lets himself stare up at the glass dome of the roof. If they were lucky, Jaha would up there; hidden away safely in one of the cells on the top floor. One step closer to going home.

“Move.” A voice commands, butting something against the small of his back. The hilt of a blade, from what he can tell. He obliges, taking measured steps forward. Raven and Clarke had long disappeared behind their doorway, and was probably already on the way to their cells. They would have to hurry.

The stairs bring them up to a dank, colorless room, equipped with numerous hoses and a line of sinks. Nothing that Bellamy _didn’t_ expect, but unpleasant all the same. Carefully, he strips off his clothes and boots, handing over his weapons without complaint. It’s an effort to keep from smirking at the clear distaste on the guard’s face as he grasps at his pistol, though, dropping it into the basket of confiscated weapons without a second look.

He’s forced into a shower stall next- the water ice-cold and making his teeth chatter- before someone hands him a prison uniform, bearing the seal of Azgeda by the pocket. He shoves them on haphazardly, shaking the water out of his hair before joining the line of people trooping towards a cell; grey rock, iron bars, filling up with bodies. Standard-issue, as Roan promised.

Miller is already there by the time he arrives, half-propped up against the wall. _Lounging,_ even; the picture of absolute nonchalance. He joins him, resting his head back against the hard surface and pretending to pick at his nails. Then, after a quick glance to make sure that no one was watching, he asks, “Monty?”

“Just got here.” Miller mutters, gaze fixed resolutely ahead. “He’s on the far-right, near the door.”

“In position, basically.”

“In position.” Miller confirms, cracking at his knuckles. There’s a rueful, almost wry note to his voice when he adds, “You know, there’s a close to a thousand ways this plan could go wrong, right?”

He glances over at him from the corner of his eye. “You kept count?”

“You didn’t?” he counters, arching a brow. “I’m just saying— this could be the last time that we’re all together. Doing _this._ As Skaikru, and as family.”

The metal gate slams shut with a jarring _clank,_ locks clicking in place. He meets Monty’s eye briefly, tears his gaze away before it becomes too obvious. “Are you talking about Raven? Her leaving?”

“No. I didn’t even know about that.” He says, flat. “I just thought— I meant you, actually. You and Clarke.”

It takes almost all his willpower to keep from looking over, from _reacting_. “What about us?”

Miller shrugs, letting his head thump back against the wall. “I don’t know. But if anyone was leaving, I thought it would be you. To be with her.”

“I wouldn’t leave any of you behind,” he says sharply, hastening to lower his voice when that draws several stares his way, “I can’t. It’s not— there’s still everyone else to take care of, back home. I can’t just up and _leave._ I won’t.”

“Maybe you should.”

A beat, and for a second, Bellamy lets himself consider the possibility that the incessant chiming of the bells _may_ have caused his best friend to snap, somehow. “What?”

“If it means you being happy, yeah.” He says finally, shaking his head ruefully. “I just— look. You’re only going to regret the chances you don’t take. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

“But—”

He’s interrupted by yet another round of bells, this time nine chimes. Sighing, he pulls away, tabling the conversation for another time. He can make out Monty working his way through the horde, head down and shoulders slumped, fingers working at something by his mouth.

Exchanging one last, furtive glance, he pulls his shirt up over his mouth, feels Miller do the same next to him. Monty’s voice is muffled under the fabric, as is the final, echoing chime of the bell, ringing in the distance.

It happens all at once— a cloud of mist dissipating from Monty’s hands and enveloping the air a milky green, the inmates slumping to the ground instantly; marionettes with their strings cut.

Bellamy counts to sixty before dropping the fabric from his mouth, picking his way through the crowd of bodies to the door. “ _Bombs away_?” he recites, managing a withering look at his approach. “You know, I don’t remember the part in the plan where you get a dramatic quip every five minutes.”

That pulls a grin out of Monty, at least; his smile revealing the second capsule of chloroform gas wedged between his teeth. “Yeah, well. I learned from the best.”

 

+

Miller gets the lock picked in a span of fifteen seconds— which is a accomplishment, even by his usual impressive standards.

“Easy,” he snorts, dropping the remaining lockpicks into Bellamy’s outstretched palm. “Anyway, if Roan is right, the rest of the cells should utilize the same type of padlock. So remember, just like how we practiced, and you should be fine.”

“Somehow, the likelihood of me picking open a lock in mere _seconds_ seems like a farfetched concept.”

“Let’s keep our goals realistic here.” Miller huffs, pocketing the rest of his lockpicks carefully. (Stashing them in his mouth earlier had been a uncomfortable but necessary procedure.) “You should be able to get them open in five minutes or so.”

“Great,” he mutters, easing the cell door shut behind them. The corridors remain quiet and still— though it wouldn’t _stay_ that way for long considering the constant patrols the guards took. They’d, hopefully, be long gone by then. “Well, you guys know your assignments. Miller, you and Monty will hit the armory first to retrieve our weapons. I’ll meet up with Clarke and Raven, then get started on searching the top cells. We’ll reconvene at the basement at half chime, and we’ll see where to go from there after.”

“Ideally?” Monty starts, yanking the second chloroform capsule free with a wince, “Home free, with our fifty million dollars secured.”

He barks out a laugh then, reaching over to squeeze at his shoulder reassuringly. “That’s the dream.” Then, because there’s really nothing else he _can_ say at this point, “Good luck.”

Monty’s smile is small, a little wistful. “You too,” he manages, before they’re turning away, disappearing from sight as they round the corner

According to the revised plans, the basement is accessible from several points, but he opts for the flight of stairs by the corridor adjacent to the cells. He’s halfway down when he registers the scuffle of feet against linoleum, the soft murmur of voices. Swearing softly under his breath, Bellamy dives behind the nearest door, balling his hands into fists—

His punch goes wide, the figure ducking away swiftly, yelping, “ _Jesus,_ Bellamy. It’s _us_.”

He stops in his tracks, hands dropping back to his sides. “Raven?”

“The one and only,” she says dryly, stepping into view. “What took you so long? Clarke was getting worried, so she insisted we turn back to get you.”

“We were held up,” he frowns, gaze darting over to the door, the stairs before them, “but where’s—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before she’s barreling into his arms, slamming into him with enough force to make him stagger— her lips against the skin of his neck, her hair tickling at his chin and her voice at his ear and just _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke._

“— you had me worried, you _ass_.” She says thickly, tightening her grip over his shoulders and pulling him closer, “What happened to staying on schedule?”

“Technically, we’re still on track.” He murmurs, winding his arms around her waist and squeezing back with equal fervor, feeling her go up to her toes slightly at the motion, “But I’m sorry I made you worry.”

That pulls a small scowl out of her, wiping at her eyes slightly as she pulls away. “Well, you _should_ be.”

“I am,” he says, mock-solemn, running his hands over her arms instinctively, assessing for injuries. “Good to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She nods. “Raven?”

“I’m going back down to the basement to prepare for our exit.” She says briskly, nudging at the door with her foot, “Let’s hope that the next time I see you guys, it’s with Jaha in tow and we’re _leaving_ this place.”

“We all do.” He mutters grimly, before Clarke’s tugging at his arm and pulling him up after her, going up the stairs two at a time.

He pulls her back at the next landing, finger to his lips, listening carefully for any signs of guards or patrols. She sobers instantly at that, exercises the same amount of caution for the next few flights; the fingers clasped around his forearm tightening at every loud noise.

They pass by mostly incident free until the fifth flight of stairs, voices and footsteps bursting into the stairwell above.

Biting back a swear, he throws his arm out, pushing her back through the door.

Her eyes are wide, breathing heavy as they flatten themselves up against the wall. The noises grow louder with each minute, a blur of boots striking the ground and Trigedasleng reverberating off the walls.

 _One minute. Two._ He assumes his fighting stance, waits. He can feel Clarke tense beside him, hands curling into fists.

But the sounds die off eventually, falling back into the same pattern as before. The occasional slammed door, voices floating down the stairwell. The pounding of fists against iron bars.

Exhaling gustily, he peels himself off the wall, sliding his fingers along the door knob.

“Wait,” she whispers, grabbing at his elbow. “Look.”

He follows her gaze, turning on his heel to look. “Fuck,” he says, taking in the doors of solid steel instead of iron bars, “I take it we’re close to the top?”

“One more flight to the top floor.” She says quietly. “Can you pick the lock?”

He wets his lips, hands unconsciously going to the lockpicks stashed in the pockets of his trousers. “I can try,” he admits. “Miller taught me the basics but if I can’t— if it doesn’t work—”

She touches at his arm, comforting. “We’ll figure something out later. C’mon.”

They head up the last flight of stairs, shutting the door carefully behind them. It’s quieter, somehow, dust motes floating lazily in the air around them as they make their way down the corridor, sticking closely to the sides to keep from being seen.

There are viewing grates lodged into the doors; giving when he tugs at them slightly. A good number of them are sleeping—which he can’t help but count his blessings for— and a few pacing, mumbling gibberish under their breath. He pulls Clarke away before they’re spotted, keeps going.

“Maybe he’s not here,” she breathes, after they pass their seventh cell. “What if they have him kept somewhere else?”

“It doesn’t make sense if they do.” He points out.

“It doesn’t have to,” she huffs, marching ahead of him slightly to yank at the grate before tugging it back in place fluidly. “It’s _Azgeda._ They think a stupid tree is the answer to all their problems.”

“Touché.”

“We could have— maybe we came all the way out here for _nothing_.” She says, her voice breaking on the word. “Jesus, Bell. If this turns out to be some wild goose chase, some—”

“It’s not.” He interrupts, reaching over slide his hand under her jaw, steadying her. “ _Hey._ I need you to trust me, okay? Call it blind optimism, or naivety, but I think we onto something here. Fuck that, I _know_ it. We didn’t travel half a fucking world away just to end up with a dead end.”

“I can assure you that we’re still on the same continent.”

“Semantics,” he says, waving it away. That pulls a small smile out of her, at least. “C’mon, Clarke.” He murmurs, jerking his chin over to the door on the right, “Lucky number eight?”

“Lucky number eight.” She sighs, going up on her toes to grab at the edge of the grate. “And if it’s not, we’re getting out of here to go get those sweet rolls.”

He grins, stroking at the skin of her wrist. “Deal.”

The grate slides open, jerking to a slight stop before she exerts a little more force, pulling it across. It’s dimly lit inside, a lone figure seated on the bed with their head bowed.

It doesn’t _seem_ to be Jaha, not from what he can make of the prisoner. Gently, he pries Clarke’s fingers away, already poised to pull the grate shut—

Then, so softly he could have missed it entirely, “Clarke?”

Her reaction is instantaneous, hand clamping down on his forearm to keep herself upright. Disbelief and hope and fear, all at once; her lips forming a name that he would last expect. “Wells?”

 

+

He doesn’t get the door open in five minutes, but in ten— which means that they’re _wholly_ behind schedule at this point.

(Still, it’s worth it. There’s no one who deserves answers more than Clarke does.)

She bursts through the door, a half-sob escaping her as they meet in the middle. Wells’s arms go around her first, and she clings to him, hands scrunching into the front of his shirt desperately.

Bellamy eases the door shut, slides the grate across. Waits for them to break apart before he sizes him up: from the prison uniform hanging off his lank frame to the dark, bruise-like shadows under his eyes to the relentless twitch of his fingers by his sides. Clearly, he’s been here for awhile now.

“I don’t believe it,” Clarke breathes, giving a watery laugh. “You’re _here._ You’re okay.”

Wells gives a fond shake of his head at that, rasps out, “You could say that, I guess.” His expression clouds over almost immediately after, though, lips twisting into a frown, “Wait. But what are _you_ doing here, Clarke?”

“Your dad’s in trouble.” She says, as a means of explanation. “It’s— it’s a long story. We didn’t find him but you— you’re here.”

“And by trouble, did you mean the City of Light?”

He’s moving even before he realizes he’s doing it, crossing the room to shield her instinctively. “How do you know about that?”

“Because it’s why they brought me here.” Wells says, jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. “It’s why they took me in the first place, to draw my dad _and_ Alie over.”

She tenses before him and he reaches forward instinctively, placing a steadying hand against the small of her back. It seems to calm her, at least, leaning back into his touch. “What?”

“Azgeda came for me,” he explains, “so I was on the run for a little while. I managed to steer clear of them for a few months, but they caught up with me eventually. And when they did, they contacted my dad so he would make the trip over with the chips.”

The furrow between her brows seems to deepen at that. “But what does _Azgeda_ want with the City of Light?”

“Beats me,” Wells shrugs. “But it’s pretty obvious that they have their own agenda. One that Alie and my dad didn’t agree with either, so he put up a fight. He crushed the chips he had on him and refused to make any more. Which didn’t exactly bode well for the both of us.”

The noise she makes is distinctly apologetic. “Wells, I’m—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, shooting her a brittle smile. “Just let me get it out?”

She nods, biting at her lip apprehensively.

“It went on for a while,” he continues, dropping his gaze back down to his hands. “And it was terrible, but something good did come out of it. My dad, uh. He started being able to throw off Alie’s influence, you know? There were times when I could see him starting to fight it. To fight _her_. A week ago, he told me he figured out a way to end this: by shutting down the City of Light for good.”

He feels his breath catch despite himself; something akin to hope rising within him. “Did it work? Did he do it?”

“Yeah,” Wells says softly, his smile rueful. “I don’t know how he did it, exactly, but he did it from within. Azgeda was livid when all these reports started coming in— of people snapping out of it, emerging with their memories perfectly intact. I think that’s when they realized they didn’t have any use for him anymore, so. They killed him.”

His voice breaks at the last word, and Bellamy looks away before he can see the tears. It seems private, somehow; _his_ grief and his grief alone. Distantly, he’s aware that Clarke has him wrapped up in a hug once more, her voice soothing as she pats at his back.

“They spared you.” She states, doubt clear in her voice.

“Not exactly,” Wells snorts. “They thought I’d be able to replicate the chip and get the City of Light up and running, somehow, so I’ve been playing along. My dad told me about how they had this device they used to make the chips, so I’ve been pretending to build it.”

He can’t help but raise a challenging brow at that. “So, you’ve just been stalling.”

“It’s not like I had a lot of options to go with.” He points out, nonchalant. “Until you guys came along, that is.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, her relief palpable as she envelops him in a hug once more, “we’re here now, which means we’re going to get you out of here. Right, Bell?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, the words belying the wide, _stupid_ grin breaking over his face at the thought of what it all meant. No City of Light, or fifty million dollars, but it meant that they would be safe _._ It meant peace. It meant being a step closer to a possible _future_ with Clarke.

She must be thinking the same thing, because she smiles back, fucking _blinding._ (It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before, and possibly everything that he wants for the rest of his life.)

“C’mon,” she tells him, reaching forward to lace their fingers together, “let’s go home.”

 

+

As it turns out, it’s significantly harder to be discreet when you have a injured prisoner hobbling after you.

He grits his teeth at the sound of his uneven, clumsy gait; loud even in the din of the prison. “Look, this might be a lot to ask, but could you possibly _try_ to keep it down?”

That earns him a withering look on Clarke’s part. “He’s been starved and tortured for _weeks,_ Bellamy. Forgive him for being a little disruptive.”

“I will as long as we get to the basement without getting an arrow through my back.”

“You’re going to get a lot more than that if you don’t stop _whining,_ ” she huffs, poking at his ribs. “How do you feel about a skewer through your throat?”

He catches at her hand before she can pull away, pressing a quick kiss to her fingers. For luck, maybe. Or maybe just because he can. “I don’t know,” he says, giving an exaggerated sigh, “I think I liked it a little better when you threatened to slide a knife through my ribs.”

The edges of her lips tilt upwards at that; a barely contained smile. “Stop flirting with me during life threatening situations.”

“Oh, so threatening bodily harm counts as flirting now?”

“You guys are nauseating,” Wells chimes in, mild.

(He turns away before Clarke can catch his grin, but not before glimpsing the flush working its way up her neck. It fills him with a smug sense of satisfaction, somehow, knowing that she’s as obvious about her feelings for him as he is for her.)

Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight to his other foot instead, bracing himself for the next flight of stairs. “ _Anyway._ Eyes sharp and weapons hot. We still have some ways to go.”

“We don’t have any weapons,” Wells points out, in that infuriatingly rational way of his.

“It’s an _expression_ ,” he huffs, counting off the requisite five seconds before moving once more, going down the next flight of stairs as swiftly as possible. Clarke follows close behind, her footsteps barely discernable in the constant rumble of noises surrounding the prison; Wells ambling after her with all the subtlety of someone who’s had way too much to drink.

They’re two floors away from the basement when he hears it: a new set of footfalls from above, growing progressively louder. Gaining on them.

He stills— barely has enough time to dive towards the door before the stairwell above them bursts into a riot of noise and color; a frantic and insistent rush of voices followed by the metallic rasp of weapons being drawn out of sheaths.

“Move!” He hisses, grabbing Wells by the collar before dragging him through the door. Clarke gives a muttered swear at it, slamming the door shut behind them with her foot. It wouldn’t be noticeable in the hubbub anyway and speed was imperative, at this point. Judging from the drawn weapons, this wasn’t a drill like before, or them being deployed elsewhere.

It was a search party, and they were _exactly_ who the guards were looking for.

“They must have done their rounds on my floor.” Wells declares grimly, staggering forward slightly when he releases him, “They’ll be activating black protocol soon if they don’t find me anywhere in the complex.”

“Figures,” he snarls, pushing at his shoulder so he’ll start walking once more. “Clarke, tell me there’s another stairwell we can access.”

She nods, quickens her pace to take the lead. “At the other end of the corridor. Follow me.”

They break into a run, their footsteps masked by the sound of the prisoners shouts and taunts. Some of them reach through the bars, trying to grab at them, and he speeds up, keeping his gaze focused on the crumpled collar of Wells’s shirt, the sway of Clarke’s hair against her shoulders—

Charging through the door, he stops in his tracks at the sight of the two guards by the head of the stairs. A beat as they seem to take them in, mouths dropping open and cigarettes falling from their fingers almost comically. _Fuck._

“ _Don’t_ —”

He throws the first punch, sending one clean off his feet and tumbling down the stairs. The other gives a shout, lunging forward with his knife in hand. He dodges the blows easily, jabbing at his knee to incapacitate him before seizing at his knife and delivering the killing blow.

Wells draws back at that, looking distinctly green. “Jesus.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Clarke gets out, grabbing at his elbow. “ _C’mon._ ”

They barrel down the last of the stairs, kicking at the basement doors to get them open.

“Where have you guys _been_?” Raven yells, striding forward angrily. “And is that Jaha, or—”

“Miller, bar the doors.” Bellamy interrupts, surveying the space before them. Two big rolling bins, one full of discarded clothes and one piled high with hay and horse tacks and what must be manure, judging from the stench. Another pair of metal doors leading to what looked like a giant chimney, stretching all the way up the ceiling. “Raven, I’ll explain later. And what the _fuck_ is that?”

“Our next problem.” Monty says, voice pinched with worry. “Turns out, they replaced the chute with a incinerator just two weeks back. Makes it a lot more convenient to get rid of infected waste and crap from the connecting stables.”

Bellamy gives another colorful swear at that. “Tell me you guys came up with _something_ to get us out of here.”

“I disabled it to keep it from running, so there’s that,” Raven says, wiping at her forehead and smearing a fresh line of coal over it, “I was thinking of making some sort of makeshift grappling hook, get a line of rope up there, and—”

“Not enough time.” He cuts in, marching forward to throw the doors open. It still smelled faintly of coal and some sort of unidentifiable chemical, but the fires were out, at least. A rough estimation put it at about four floors high, the walls made of rough, jutting brick.

He takes a deep breath, turning to face them, “Tell me that there’s rope in one of those bins.”

Raven’s eyes go wide, brows rising up to her hairline. “You’re kidding, right?”

“He’s not.” Miller says, lips thinning into a line as he sweeps his gaze over the bins. It’s plain to see that he’s unhappy about the situation, but the grim resolution in his voice means that he’s not going to argue with him about it either. (Bellamy can’t help but feel a little grateful for it.) “I think I see some over there. I’ll get it for you.”

“Hold on,” Clarke demands, whirling onto him, “tell me that’s not what you’re planning on doing. Tell me you’re not planning on climbing up there by yourself with _nothing_ holding you up.”

He winces at the clear distress in her voice. “You know I can’t.”

She makes a strangled noise, grabbing at his forearms, “Listen to me, okay? Bell, that’s _crazy._ It’s four whole floors, and there— there’ll be no net, or anyone pulling you up, or—”

“I can do it.” He interjects, swallowing. “I know I can.” She’s shaking in his arms now, eyes filling, and it takes almost all of his willpower to keep from giving in; to provide her with a small measure of comfort and assurance, like he always has.

But this is too important, and everyone else is counting on him— so he leans closer instead, pressing his forehead up against hers. “Hey. _Hey._ Look at me, princess. You trust me, right? You have faith in me?”

Her breath is ragged against his cheek, but her voice is steady when she tells him, “Always.”

“Good.” Bellamy murmurs, dropping a kiss against her forehead, her eyelid, anywhere he can reach. “So trust me when I say I can do it, okay? I’ll be up there before you know it, throwing down the rope for you guys. Then it’ll be _my_ turn to worry about you.”

She gives a choked laugh at that, hands going up to thump uselessly at his chest. “God. We’re always going to be worrying about each other, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” he says, working to keep his voice nonchalant, “but at least it isn’t boring.”

“I could go for some boring right about now.”

“Yeah. Boring sounds perfect.” He manages, smiling crookedly. And before he can chicken out, before he can talk himself out of it, he kisses her. He kisses her with everything he has, with everything he’s feeling. With everything that he hasn’t been able to say to her, not yet. He kisses her, and it’s the all the feelings that he’s been choking down whenever he looks at her. He kisses her, and it’s a confession.

Her face is wet when he pulls away, trembling slightly. When he steps out of her hold, she doesn’t stop him.

“I’m good to go,” he calls out, pitching forward to grab at the gun and knife that Monty and Miller must have retrieved for him from the armory. “Rope?”

“Here.” Miller says, handing over a massive coil of rope. It’s thick, holds when he tugs at it experimentally. _Good._

He slides the knife in his boot and tucks the gun into the waistband of his trousers before hefting the rope over his shoulder. Loose rocks skitter under his feet when he nears the ledge, tumbling into the space below. Clearing his throat, he says, “Remember, once I throw down the rope, you guys climb like _hell_ and get up there, you hear me? They know that Jaha is out, and they will find us if we don’t move fast. We have to get out of here before they activate the black protocol.”

Miller nods, grabs at his shoulder before pulling him into a brief hug. His voice is muffled against his shoulder when he tells him, “You got this.”

He musters a weak smile, spares one last glance at Clarke. Her expression is all steel now, arms crossed over her chest. Blazing and determined and _fierce._ As if she’d defy all fucking laws of gravity if it would keep him from falling. It pulls a smile out of him, and when she meets his eyes, he finds himself steadying, his pulse calming instinctively at her unwavering gaze.

One last deep, shuddering breath. Then, he jumps.

 

+

The brick scrapes at his palms the second he lands, causing him to suck in a pained hiss.

It’s not unexpected, really, but the jolt of pain that rushes through his body is enough to make his knees wobble. Biting back a swear, he grabs at the next divot in the wall instead, hauling himself up shakily. His hands feel slick— either from blood or sweat, but he can’t bring himself to look.

He finds the next handhold, and then the next. Pain lances through his body with every movement, sweat beading at his brow and rolling down his face. His calves begin to scream in protest by the time he reaches the halfway point, hands bloodied and muscles _aching_ from the effort of holding himself up.

Still, he keeps going anyway. It’s not like he has a choice. He never really does.

The first time he climbs is because of Octavia.

She’s eight and he’s thirteen— and for some reason, she gets it in her head that she wants to see the sun rise. A boy from the market had told her that the best place to see it was from the Exodus tower: the tallest skyscraper in Arkadia. He said no. She went anyway.

His foot slips, sending him sliding lower against the wall. Someone gives a alarmed shout at it, the voices below dissolving into a cacophony of sound. He scrabbles at the brick, digs his nails in until he jerks to a stop, limbs _shaking._

Clarke’s voice drifts up from below, cracking on the stretch of his name. “Bellamy?”

“I’m fine.” He rasps out, licking his lips. “I’m good.”

Her voice sounds impossibly small when she speaks. “Okay.”

“I’m okay,” he continues, grabbing at the next handhold. Swinging himself up. Again and again and again. “I’m okay.”

It’s what he told himself that day, too. Shoulders aching and knees trembling and seconds away from wetting himself. He didn’t _want_ to do it. He didn’t _have_ to. Logically, a part of him knew that it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. Going after Octavia wouldn’t ensure her safety— it just raised the odds of him falling to his death and making the headlines of the evening paper the next day.

But he did it anyway. He did it because it was Octavia. He did it because she was his sister. He did it because he never knew quite understood how to live when it wasn’t for someone else. For years, that reasoning had forced his hand. Had made him do countless things that he didn’t necessarily _want_ to do, just for the sake of others.

Maybe one day— sooner, hopefully than later— he would do something for himself. Maybe one day, he would learn what it meant to carry nothing but his own weight with each step.

He can feel the sun’s rays beating down against his neck, the smell of coal and ash fading away with each breath. _Close. So fucking close._

“Next time I see a sunrise,” he mutters to himself, throwing his arm over the ledge, toes curling in his boots to stabilize his hold on the wall, “it’s because _I_ goddamn want to.”

Then he’s pushing himself up, tumbling out into the open, landing flat on his back.

The sun is blinding against his eyelids; his hair matted to his forehead, and Bellamy _laughs_ because he’s pretty sure he’s managed to accomplish the impossible, somehow. In this moment, he’s nothing if fucking celestial.

He gives himself another three seconds before he pulls himself to his feet, wiping at the blood on his hands. Surveying his surroundings, he hones in on the lamp post by the other end of the roof; broad base, sturdy—

And in the distance, suddenly, he hears it: the shrill, high shriek of an alarm. Relentless and repetitive.

Black protocol.

Giving a violent swear, he secures the rope around the lamp post, tugging _hard_ to make sure it holds. After making certain that he does, he throws the line down, bellowing, “Come on!”

A beat, before he feels the rope begin to sway.

Wells emerges first, panting, and he grabs at his shoulders to haul him up the last few feet. That pulls a pained noise out of him, which he ignores in favor of holding the rope steady. Judging from how the rope seems to pull a little more taut than before, he’s guessing that it’s Raven on it. The extra weight of the brace is _definitely_ going to hamper her, so he’s damn well going to help out in whatever way he can.

She’s pale and sweaty by the time she pulls up, hands trembling faintly with the effort of clinging onto the rope, and he’s sliding his arms under hers to yank her up before she can protest.

Monty comes next, nimble and sure-footed. Wells draws up next to him, grabbing at Monty’s other arm and launching him over the lip of the incinerator easily.

“They’re at the door,” Monty gasps out, collapsing into a heap next to them, “they’re coming. We have to _hurry_.”

He grits his teeth together, wills the person on the rope to move faster. “Miller barred the doors. It should buy us some time. It’s going to.”

“How long is a plank of wood going to keep them out?”

“Long enough!” he snaps, forcing his own hands to steady at the sight of the next figure gaining on the rope, “Wells, get his other arm.”

They pull Miller up, grunting with the effort.

“Clarke,” he bursts out, chest heaving with exertion, “— _guards._ We have—”

Panic grips at his chest, makes it hard to breathe. For a second, he contemplates scaling back down the rope, gun drawn and knife in hand—

Then he feels it; the rope jerking under his grip, pulling taut once more. Pressing closer to the ledge, he glances down, trying valiantly to glimpse her in the dark, for _any_ sign of her—

He can’t help the strangled noise of relief that escapes at the sight of her, hands working at the rope and hair flashing under the sunlight. “Pull her up,” he manages, tightening his grip on the rope, “ _help_ me— just— fucking pull her up!”

Multiple hands seize at the rope, dragging her up, and suddenly Clarke’s in his arms and he can _breathe_ again.

“I’m fine,” she soothes, grabbing onto the back of his jacket, holding herself steady. “A few of them shot at me with arrows, but it barely nicked me.”

“It _nicked_ you?”

“Later,” she says briskly, “they’re going to come up here. We need to go.”

“How?” Raven snarls, sweeping an arm out to the open space before them, “we’re _stuck._ The rooftop doesn’t lead anywhere else, and the rope isn’t long enough—”

His gaze lands on the next building, the lip of its roof.

“We jump,” Bellamy says decisively, already calculating the odds of them making it, the odds of them not, “it’s a short one. We’ll be fine.”

Wells open his mouth, as if to protest, but Monty’s already slinging an arm over his shoulders, bracing him. “I’ll help you,” he says, at his bewildered expression. “C’mon.”

Then they’re running, arms pumping and muscles tense as they hurtle over the space. Monty hits the ground first, rolling into a crouch and back on his feet. Wells lands on his side, swearing, but otherwise unharmed.

He releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding, barely has time to take another when Raven and Miller are jumping, arms flailing wildly before hitting the ground, ice crunching beneath their weight.

 _Just him and Clarke now._ He glances over at her, asks, “Together?”

Her laugh is breathy, fingers intertwining with him to squeeze as she stares out into the distance before them. Three steps ahead, and already considering their next plan of action. (It’s one of the things he loves best about her.) “Yeah, Bellamy. Together.”

 

+

The building— much like most of the structures in Ice Nation— is made out of pale marble and steel; the sound of their footsteps loud as they descend further into it.

“This place is deserted,” Clarke shivers, after they’ve turned into their _third_ consecutive empty corridor. “Is it weird that I have a bad feeling about it?”

He eyes the glass case full of broadswords, arrowheads and spears mounted against the wall, gaze going up to the dusty banner stretched above it. _Azgeda Uf._ “Trust me, it’s definitely not weird.”

Monty stops in his tracks at that, reaching up to graze at the creased fabric. “ _Uf._ That means power, right?”

“Or strength.” Clarke points out, frowning slightly. “Azgeda Strength. You know, I’ll be a little more convinced if they got themselves _some_ rifles or ammunition or tech, at least. As it is, they’re woefully behind.”

“I think you’re forgetting that they think the source of their power comes from a sacred tree.” He says dryly, pressing back against the wall before chancing a peek past the corner. “Clear.”

“Clear,” Miller calls out from up ahead, before swivelling back to face them. “Hey. You think we’re in some sort of place of worship, or something?”

“ _What?_ ”

He shrugs, jerking his chin towards another glass display. “There’s a whole bunch of stuff here that has to do with the grounder folklore. Nightbloods and pramheda and all that crap. That’s her symbol, right?”

“And Alie’s,” Wells says quietly, edging past them carefully to study the items laid out before them. “Guys, I think we might be in a _museum_.”

“War and artifacts,” Clarke recites, her expression going thoughtful. “Yeah, I think Roan might have mentioned it to me once. Wells, we were supposed to come along, remember? But we snuck off to go to the Ice Fields instead.”

“It was between this and baby polar bears according to Roan,” Wells mutters, inching further along the corridor. “It wasn’t much of a choice.”

Bellamy opens his mouth, a sarcastic quip already on the tip of his tongue when he sees it— his mouth dropping open to gape, instead. “Holy shit.”

She’s on him in a heartbeat, grasping at his elbow protectively. “What is it?”

“ _That_ ,” he breathes, spinning on his heel to face the humongous glass enclosure before them. Lit by a single iron lantern, with a missile staring back at him, the words _POLARIS_ emblazoned on it.

“Probably the remnants of the thirteenth station when it was blown out of space,” Clarke says slowly, tilting her head back to survey the rest of the room. “I don’t think they have any idea what all this _is._ An escape pod. Hazmat suits. It’s all the tech they’re so afraid of.”

“And that’s well and good,” Miller says, huffing, “but it’s not like it’s helping us with our situation. At _all_.”

He can still make out the sound of the alarms blaring in the distance if he strains his ears; the sound muffled in the tomb-like atmosphere of the building. “I know. But we might—”

Raven bursts back into the room then, face alight with some sort of emotion he can’t seem to place. “You guys are going to want to see this,” she declares breathlessly, taking off before they can formulate a response.

Exchanging mutual uneasy looks, they go after her; weapons drawn and braced for a fight.

“I’m going to need your gun.” She says, the second he steps into the cavernous space; hands planted on her hips and head tilted. It’s the look she gets when she’s figuring out the best way to pull something apart and put them back together with ten times the destructive power. (It’s equal amounts awe-inspiring as it is terrifying.)

“You’re going to have to tell me why— _oh_.”

For a second, he can only sort of stare, trying to process the monstrosity before him. The enclosure is nearly a quarter mile long, high enough to graze the ceiling, a massive barrel pointed at him as if poised to fire.

A _tank_.

“I’ve never driven one before,” Raven continues airily, dropping into a crouch as to study the massive wheels, lined by a thick thread. “But suffice to say, I think I just found us our getaway vehicle.”

He’s tempted to protest, considering how it’s _clearly_ a relic from way back when, which means the likelihood of it functioning is close to none— but that’s when he hears it: the sound of a pair of heavy doors being flung open, _voices_. They’re out of time.

Raising his gun, he fires twice, taking out the glass. “If this thing doesn’t run, we’re done for.” He warns, grabbing ahold of one of the grooves set against its metal exterior. “Raven, drive. Monty, operate the guns. Miller, you’re with me and Clarke, you’re in charge of Wells.”

“I don’t need a _babysitter_.”

“And I don’t need your opinion,” he says tartly, aiming his gun at the doorway. Miller clambers up behind him, knife drawn. “Get us straight to the harbor and home free, Reyes.”

She nods, her grin bright and sure and _alive._ “I’m bringing us home,” she promises, sliding through the metal dome and into the main frame of the tank.

The voices are getting louder, the footfalls gaining in urgency. Bellamy tightens his grip on his gun, takes a deep, heaving breath. Then, turning to Miller, “Tell me you have one of those flash bombs Monty made.”

“Four.” He says tightly. “When do I use them?”

“If Raven can’t get this goddamn tank to move.” He manages through gritted teeth, assuming his stance once more. “Use the flash bomb as a distraction to get everyone else out. I’ll stay back and take out as many as I can to buy you some guys some time.”

The scoff Miller makes at that is distinctly disparaging. “That’s a stupid-ass plan.”

“It’s the only one I have,” he says grimly, tensing at the sound of their approach. “Raven?”

She raps her knuckles against the side of his wall. “I need a minute!”

“We don’t _have_ a minute!” he yells, just as the room begins to flood with people; Azgeda guards bearing bows and swords and knives—

He starts to shoot, taking out the first line of defence. Clarke’s knives find their mark in the next group, Miller’s joining the fray. An arrow whips by, grazing at his arm and making him hiss. More and more bodies, surging in—

“Miller!” he shouts, hand outstretched and waiting, feet poised to jump, “the _bomb_ —”

The ground begins to shake before he can finish his sentence, the tank shuddering as it lurches forward. He yelps, nearly dislodges his arm trying to hold on, and in a haze of black smoke and the smell of thick, acrid diesel, he thinks he makes out the guards scrambling to fall back, their voices rising in panic.

Tightening his grip on the jut of metal, the tank begins to roll forward, scattering guards in their wake. There’s the faint _thunk_ of something sounding within it as they move, rolling forward and lodging in place with a _click_.

Then, with a almighty groan, the gun launches, a skull-rattling _boom_ filling the air as he ducks for cover reflexively.

He raises his head after a moment of silence, trembling slightly— the wall before them has been reduced to rubble, chunks of marble collapsing onto the ground and sending plumes of dust billowing in the air.

A incredulous laugh bubbles up on his lips, dies just as quickly as they plunge forward, through the hole and out into the open at a terrifying speed; roaring past a stream of guards and arrows bouncing harmlessly off the exterior of the tank. Past the second checkpoint and past the Ice Court, wheels rumbling as they screech onto the glass bridge.

The massive, imposing gate of the Ice Court looms before them, drawn shut and manned by several guards. He raises his pistol, sends them to their knees before they can draw their weapons. For a single, heart-stopping second, he considers the possibility that they might just _barrel_ right through it—

Metal shrieks against metal as the mortar catapults through the air, slamming right through the gate and rendering it to shreds. The impact of it sends him slamming up against the tank once, all the breath leaving him at once.

Or maybe it’s the sight of the miles and miles of country road before them, leading back to the harbor. Miles and miles of _freedom._

A single, breathless second, the tank pushing on, and then they’re _screaming_ in unison— Miller throwing his head back, shouting a litany of _fuck yes_ into the sky, Clarke whooping and Wells’s hysterical laughter and Bellamy’s _grinning_ because they fucking _did it,_ against all odds—

The hatch pops open a fraction as they thunder further down the road, Monty’s slender fingers emerging as he gives one last finger towards the Ice Court to the backdrop of their laughter, receding further and further away as they disappear into the the distance.

Towards the Vesta. Towards home.

 

+

They have dinner on the deck that night; paper plates balanced on their knees and picking at the meagre rations stored on the boat.

“So, let me get this straight,” Raven says dubiously, ripping at a piece of beef jerky with her fingers, “the City of Light is gone. But so is our fifty million.”

“I assumed you would have figured that out the second you saw _me_ instead of my dad,” Wells points out, mild. “I don’t know about Skaikru, but where I’m from? Hostages aren’t all that interchangeable.”

That pulls a snort out of Clarke. “Clearly you’ve been away from Arkadia for too long.”

“And clearly, you’ve never had to deal with Skaikru.” Bellamy smirks, leaning back against his chair jauntily. It earns him a dirty look from Clarke, one that makes him hasten to add, “But, you know. That’s not the point.”

“I think the point is that we just pulled off the biggest heist imaginable without any payoff whatsoever,” Miller says, though it’s hard not to notice that he doesn’t sound mad about it in the slightest.

“Pretty sure that it’s just called a good deed,” Monty chimes in.

“Can’t say I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Can’t say that either of us are familiar with it,” Bellamy deadpans, tipping back the bottle of pilfered vodka (spirited from the med bay to _celebrate_ , according to Raven) and gulping it down. “Except maybe Jaha Junior over here. From what princess tells me, he sounds like a regular saint.”

The noise he makes is distinctly miffed. “I’m not _that_ nice.”

Raven raises a brow over at him, coos, “Did you bring home stray animals as a kid?”

“I mean— yeah, but—”

“Volunteered at a old folk’s home?” Monty prompts.

“Yes, but—”

“Worked at your local soup kitchen?”

Wells throws his hands up, letting them fall against his thighs with a loud _smack._ “I’ll have you know that it was _Clarke_ who signed us up for volunteer shifts at the hospital.”

“True,” she agrees, “but I also held off two armed Trikru members with nothing but a knife, so I think I have some street cred.”

“You have _all_ the street cred,” he says, mock-solemn, “in fact, I don’t know if you guys know this, but Clarke was the one who single handedly fought off those pirates with nothing but a toothpick and—”

He catches at her wrist before she manages to land a hit against his forearm, tugging at it gently so she falls onto his lap instead. She pinches at his hip in retaliation but stays where she is anyway, snuggling closer instead.

Miller makes a gagging noise at it. “Dare we ask?”

“I’m assuming you heard the gist of it a few nights back.” Clarke says, beaming with faux innocence, and he has to bite at his lip to keep from laughing when that launches Miller into a coughing fit.

“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to know.” Wells says weakly. Bellamy dangles the bottle over at him— a conciliatory gesture— and surprisingly, he takes it, pressing the bottle to his lips.

A few short sips and a beat after, he asks, “So. What now?”

Monty shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “We go back to the way things were, I guess.”

It’s a surprisingly sobering, if unwelcome, thought. One that he can’t quite bring himself to believe, considering everything that they have been through. One that he can’t quite bring himself to _want._

He clears his throat, says instead, “In some ways, yeah.” Then, glancing surreptitiously over at Clarke, and Raven, and Wells, “And in some ways not.”

She must sense it, somehow, because her fingers are curling over his hip and squeezing encouragingly. “And in some ways not,” she echoes, pressing her cheek against the crevice of his collarbone.

“Exactly,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against her hair. And Bellamy recognizes that things are far from over— that there are loose threads to tie up and feathers to smooth and a thousand other things to do— but right now, he’s holding the girl he loves in his arms. The breeze is ruffling through his hair and the sun is warm against his skin and the moment is his.

It’s more than enough. It’s _everything_. Everything he thought he never deserved.

So he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting himself enjoy the last of the sun’s rays before it dips below the horizon.

 

+

The next few days pass by in the same way: in a kind of easy, meandering rhythm that they didn’t have the luxury of enjoying while they were making their way there. The clear skies and strong winds meant that their journey would probably be a lot shorter than expected, too.

Mostly, they deal with it in different ways.

Monty packs, absentmindedly rattling off a laundry list of things they need to do the second they set foot back on land. All ready to slip back into the fray of things. Miller chimes in from time to time, spends the rest of it brooding and sneaking looks at Monty whenever he’s not looking. Raven plans— or at least dictates the various ways she hopes to improve Luna’s island— while Clarke helps her with the sketches. Wells reads whatever he can gets his hands on, books and newspaper cuttings and plans they brought over from Arkadia; anything to reacquaint himself back to the city.

And him? Well. He’s with Clarke. There’s no one else he’d rather spend his time with.

“You’re kidding,” he groans, when she reaches past him to flick at the light switch, “you know it’s only _nine_ , right? You can’t be sleepy yet.”

“I’m not.” She says primly, sprawling over him carelessly, “But I’ll be back in school soon and I have to get my sleeping schedule back on track. My morning classes are absurdly early.”

“Like you were so great at attending them in the first place.” He teases, ruffling at her hair.

She smacks at his chest lightly at that, scowling as he dissolves into laughter, “Fine, so maybe I didn’t show up to _all_ my classes. But I was there most of the time.”

“Late and toting a cup of coffee, I’ll bet.” He says, wry. “You’re probably one of those people who used to sneak in through the back and sit right by the door.”

“And you’re probably one of _those_ people who sat right in the front, all perky and helpful and attentive.” She retorts, sticking her tongue out at him. “Teacher’s pet.”

“Heathen.” He grins, shifting suddenly and pinning her hands above her head before bestowing a bruising kiss on her lips. Her reaction is instantaneous, moaning as she hooks a leg over his hip, pulling him closer.

He swears at the feeling of her breasts pressed up against his chest, trailing a path with his mouth along her jaw, down to the neckline of her shirt. “You know, I’d like to think that we would have gotten along if we met under different circumstances.”

Clarke arches up to bite at his lip hotly, laughing. “Yeah, right. What are the odds of you saying something _really_ pretentious, and me picking a fight with you over it on the first day of class?”

“Admittedly high,” he says, tugging at the hem of her shirt before pulling it up and over her head. Clad in nothing but her underwear and lit by the soft glow of the lamp next to them, he can’t help but stare, running his fingers down the length of her body before going back up to tease and pluck at her nipples, making her cry out. She’s so fucking _beautiful._ “Though I’d like to think that we’d have made it to where we are right now, too.

“Yeah,” she pants, twisting her fingers in his hair as his mouth latches onto her breast, sucking hard, “I was— _ah_. I was thinking of picking up a couple more jobs when we get to town. Maybe get a few freelance assignments. Someone else has to be looking for an artist for hire, right?”

He draws back, hovering over her. “Yeah, uh,” he starts, rubbing at his face. “I just— don’t worry about it, okay?”

She goes alert at that, eyes narrowing suspiciously as she props herself up on her elbows; nearly clipping his chin in the process. “And why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I paid for it.” He says smoothly, shoulders jerking up clumsily in a half-shrug. His best attempt at feigning nonchalance. “And before you start _yelling_ at me, hear me out: technically, Skaikru _hired_ you for your services. We hired you to get a job done, and you did.”

Her gaze seems to soften a fraction at it, hands come up to cup at his cheek. “Bell—”

“It’s not a unreasonable amount,” he interrupts, dropping a quick kiss against her lips. “Plus, it made sense, considering how I already mailed them a admissions cheque for night classes.”

“Night classes…?” she trails off, frowning. Then, realization seems to dawn on her all at once, gaping as she takes him in, “Wait. _You_?”

“Don’t get too excited,” he says gruffly, clutching at her hips. “It’s on a part-time basis, and I’ll only be able to visit you _after,_ but—”

His words are drowned out by her bright, ringing laugh, throwing her arms around her shoulders as she smashes their mouths together, kissing him eagerly and hungrily. He can’t help his own laugh either, responding with the same enthusiasm before pulling away to breathe.

“Let me guess,” she says, shaking her head fondly, “you’re majoring in History.”

“Classics,” he corrects, hands drifting downwards and stroking at her over her underwear, making her gasp sharply, “I think Miller nearly had a aneurysm when I told him, but he’s surprisingly committed to my pursuit of happiness.”

“So am I,” she breathes, mewling when he finally slides two fingers in, stroking at her while she bucks and whines beneath him, hips working frantically, “ _fuck,_ Bell. I—”

“Should definitely get a bigger bed for your room?” Bellamy says, grinning. “Yeah, I agree.”

He works at her until she comes, then slides down her body to eat her out before finally pushing into her. She winds their fingers together, whimpering as he rocks against her; slow and languid and thorough.

“Hey,” she murmurs after, carding her fingers through his hair from where he’s slumped over her, “you know you make me really happy, right?”

(And somehow, it’s easy to believe it when she’s the one who’s saying it.)

“Good,” he manages, kissing at her damp forehead. “Because as it turns out, you’re stuck with me for a while.”

 

+

Arkadia’s skyline comes into view, all soot grey buildings and plumes of smoke in the distance.

“Home sweet home,” Miller drawls, folding his arms across his chest. He’s been getting steadily grumpier with each passing day, but it’s impossible to miss the note of happiness in his voice right now as he stares out into the horizon. “Looks the same as we left it.”

Bellamy nudges at his ribs. “You were expecting something different?”

“Not exactly,” he grunts. Then, relenting a fraction, “I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” he can’t help but agree. “Everything’s different now. Feels like Arkadia should be different, too.”

That pulls a snort out of him. “Dude. Nothing about Arkadia is ever _different_. That’s the beauty of it, you know? The players may change. The faces, and the names, and the schemes. But when it comes down to it, we’re all stuck on the same fucking hamster wheel. Running the same games until we’re dead in the ground.”

He can’t help raising a brow over at him. “And that’s what you want for yourself?”

“It was enough for _you,_ for a while,” Miller rebuts, shrugging. “So, yeah. I suppose it’s enough. For now, at least.”

(The surreptitious glance he sneaks over at Monty seems to belie his words entirely, but he decides not to push anyway.)

“Two minutes from land,” Raven calls out, limping up to them. The last few days of strenuous activity has taken its toll on her, and he has to resist the urge to snap at her to _rest_ every time he sees her dragging herself aboard the deck. “What’s the plan?”

“Head to town and find a runner to get our message over to Kane,” he instructs, gripping at the rail. “Explain the situation. Wait for him to set up a meeting.”

“What about Clarke and Wells?”

He frowns, tilting his chin in question. “What about them? They’re free to go.”

“You’re forgetting that this is _Kane_ we’re talking about,” Raven points out. “We don’t know what he’s capable of, okay? Wouldn’t it be safer to have them here? If the need arises?”

“You mean as hostages,” he amends, shaking his head. “Look, I’ll admit that Kane is tricky, but I’m not sure what danger he poses as of now. We’re not _asking_ for anything. With everything that has gone down, he should be kissing—”

The sudden pressure at his elbow makes him look up, as does Miller’s panicked voice, “ _Bellamy_.”

They’re pulling into the harbor— the same one they left from all those weeks back. The same boxes and shadows and wet, sloping ground. Except Kane is there, this time, flanked by numerous members of The Guard, guns in hand.

His blood goes cold at the sight of it, stomach clenching involuntarily. The Guard being there only meant one thing.

Distantly, he’s aware of footsteps thundering across the deck, a familiar voice by his ear. He can’t quite bring himself to make out the actual words, his head buzzing with a kind of white noise that threatens to deafen him. Taking a deep breath, he turns to face them, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Get back into the Vesta. All of you.”

“No.” Clarke’s eyes are blazing, her jaw set. “I’m not leaving you.”

“ _Clarke_.” His voice breaks on her name; her form blurring before him as he fights back the sudden pressure behind his eyelids, “Please. You need to look out for Wells.”

“You’re not doing this alone,” she says fiercely, sliding her hand into his. “Whatever the fuck _this_ is— we face it together.”

Miller’s laugh is derisive, though he makes no move to go. “Isn’t it obvious, by now? We’ve been double-crossed. And by a supposedly upstanding merchant, no less.”

“Maybe it’s not what we think it is.” Monty whispers, biting at his lip.

“It’s exactly what we think it is,” he says, grim, working to keep his expression stony when he finally brings himself to look at Kane. His lips are pursed, the picture of stern disapproval, and it makes Bellamy want to put his fist in it. Instead, he calls out, “Now, _this_ is a warm welcome.”

“Mr. Blake,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. “I need you and your crew to step off the boat.”

“I like it better up here, but thanks.”

His eye twitches at that, moustache quivering. “If you and your crew don’t get off the boat this instant _,_ I _will_ have to resort to force. We have hundreds of guns aimed at all of you as it is.”

“I can’t say that I dislike the direct approach.” He says, giving a heavy sigh. “But here’s what I think _really_ happened, Kane. You never intended to pay any of us, even if we came back with the right Jaha in tow. The intention was always to utilize our services, then throw us into prison, or better yet, to the gallows. Right?” He has to strain to make himself heard over the din of the harbor, the low murmuring between the guards below, “Because, as I’ve been told, you’re a bit of overzealous, pious _prick_ who’s all about the rules. Always trying to clean up the streets of Arkadia. To get people to join your little crusade.”

He has the nerve to look a little _hurt_ by the accusation. “Now, Mr. Blake. You must know that it has always been my intention to provide men with work. Good work, _honest_ work. What you do in Arkadia— all the violence and _gangs_ and—”

“You must have one of my men on your payroll.” Bellamy interrupts, tapping a finger against his chin contemplatively. “You wouldn’t have known when to ambush us otherwise. Considering how it is surprisingly quiet below deck right now, I’m guessing it’s either Sterling or Monroe. Maybe both. How much did you have to bribe them to get them to turn on me? What made you decide to _finally_ desert the ranks of these supposed good, honest men?”

The vein along his forehead throbs dangerously at that. “ _Mr. Blake_ —”

“But seeing as I am a good Samaritan,” he continues, casting a glance over at the numerous figures surrounding the Vesta; seconds away from flooding in and apprehending all of them, “and how I want _minimal_ bloodshed: let me cut you a deal.”

“You’re not in any position to be making _deals_ ,” Kane sputters, his face going red. “In fact—”

“But I am.” Bellamy cuts in, squeezing at Clarke’s palm; their intertwined hands hidden behind the hull of the boat. “Considering how I have Councilwoman Griffin’s daughter right here. It would be a scandal, wouldn’t it? If word got out about her involvement?”

“She was clearly tricked—”

Clarke’s voice is nothing but steel when she speaks, “I did it out of my own free will, Marcus. A statement which I will be glad to repeat if word ever gets out.”

He seems to tense at that, hands dropping to his sides. Then, in a exceedingly patient voice, “Whatever your reasons are, Clarke, you are conspiring with _criminals,_ and your mother will not stand—”

Her mouth drops open, furious, clearly seconds away from tearing into him. “Are you _seriously_ —”

He squeezes at her palm until she stops, gives her a barely perceptible shake of his head. _Not now._

“Now that I’ve got your attention,” Bellamy says smoothly, “let’s discuss, shall we? Evidently, you’re not going to rest until you have _someone_ in shackles, marching down to the gallows—”

“Someone has to take responsibility for the ruckus that occurred in the Ice Court,” Kane simpers. “Arkadia cannot withstand the wrath of Azgeda. The ones held responsible will be punished, made an example of. And if it’s someone from the gangs, well. Doesn’t that just kill two birds with one stone?

He pulls away from Clarke’s grip carefully. “I’ll admit that I see the logic behind it, which is why I’m offering you this,” he takes a deep breath, forces his hands to steady by his sides, “all you need is someone to take the fall _._ You don’t need a crew, Kane. You need one person. Silvertongue.”

The outcry that sounds through the deck is deafening— but he keeps his gaze firmly fixed forward, fixed on him. Anything to keep from looking at them.

“Send your guards up to get me,” he continues, “but if they lay a hand on my crew, I promise you that there will be hell to pay. Skaikru will come after you, and it will be relentless. Arkadia will not know peace for _years_.”

The look that flashes across his face is distinctly surprised. “So you _do_ have a soul, Mr. Blake.” Kane muses. For a second, that seems to give him pause, but then he’s jerking his chin towards his guards, barking out, “Go, bring him down. The rest, keep your guns aimed at his crew. One wrong move from any of them, and we shoot them all.”

They take off, the ground shaking beneath them as they charge towards the boat. He pivots on the spot, mindful to keep his movements, minimal, allows himself to take one last glance of his crew, his friends, his _family_ —

“Jesus, what were you thinking?” Miller swears, his bottom lip trembling dangerously. “For fuck’s sake, _Bellamy_ —”

“Take care of them.” He interrupts, forceful. “Make sure everyone else gets off this boat unscathed. _Promise_ me, Nate.”

“I will, but—”

He turns away, gaze landing on her instinctively. Her face is glazed with tears, but the twist of her mouth is hard. Determined. _Furious._ It makes him want to laugh, somehow, because _that’s his girl, alright._

“I’m not going to let you die,” she declares, taking a shuddering breath. “So don’t you _dare_ give up, Bellamy. We’re coming for you. We’ll get you out.”

He opens his mouth, tries to say something. _Anything_. Comes up short. “Clarke—”

Then they’re shoving him to his knees, his face pressed up against the wood of the deck. A shout, the barrel of a gun pressed up against his back before they’re throwing a bag over his head, plunging him into darkness, his _I love you_ still hanging from his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... nobody kill me, I SWEAR I will all be tied up nicely by the next chapter!


	4. Epilogue: Clarke

**Epilogue: Clarke**

Bellamy’s room was exactly how she pictured it to be.

Pivoting on her heel, she takes it all in: from the worn books lining the shelves, to the jacket draped over his chair, and to mug bearing the dregs of his milky, too-sweet coffee. The walls are plastered with countless loose sheets— of quotes and pictures and detailed sketches, most likely of previous coups. Surrounded by all that he holds dear. 

Everything about the space makes her feel suspended in time, somehow. As if he’d appear in the doorway any second, toting another mug and grumbling lowly under his breath about _those goddamned punks_ and how _they’re just fucking kids, Clarke_ — just like she imagined he would.

A wild, almost hysterical laugh bubbles up at that, and she has to bite down on her lip to smother it. He was fine. He _had_ to be. There was a shortage of people in her life that she trusted, let alone loved, and she refused to make the same mistake of letting someone else take them away from her. 

(And if there was anything she knew, it was that she would fight like _hell_ for him. For them, and the future they were supposed to have. Happy endings didn’t come easy for people like them, after all. It was earned, with bloodied knuckles and bruised limbs and burnt bridges. If the universe refused to give them one, she would claw and tear and rip and shape one of their own.)

It was why she was here, really— standing in the middle of his room with a set of plans in one hand, and a duffel bag in the other. 

Raven draws up next to her, panting slightly. “ _Jesus_. You know, I’m was always convinced that he took the highest room in here just so he could spite me.” 

“That, and so he could read from the terrace, most likely.” She muses, flopping down onto his unmade bed. “There’s good light up here.”

“I keep telling him to just get glasses, already.” 

“He’s vain enough to hold out for a few more years,” she says, reaching for the books stacked haphazardly by his nightstand. _Greek Myths_ and _The Iliad._ She shoves them into the bag, adds in _A Tale of Two Cities_ for luck. “How much time do we have?” 

Raven checks at the watch strapped to her wrist. “Half an hour, but I should go set up at Mecha soon. You can handle this?” 

“Yeah, of course.” She frowns, yanking at one of his drawers. Piles of crumpled shirts and pants. There’s no time to go through them all, though she makes sure to grab at a variety of fabrics. “You’ll be getting into position?” 

“Not yet. I have to gather everyone else first.” She says, dropping a pile of fabric next to her before reaching for something else in her pack. “But before I go— I have a little something for you.” 

“You know, I said it a thousand times before: I don’t think we need a _bazooka_ for this.” 

She makes a impatient noise at that, sliding something into her lap. “It’s not as good as a bazooka, but it’ll probably help.”

Two masks, dark blue and speckled with white— colors of the night sky. 

“Skaikru,” she breathes, fingers reaching over to trace the hard edges of it. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re a honorary member.” Raven declares, squeezing at her arm. “I had it custom-made so it’s not just decorative— it’ll keep the gas out. Make sure to get one on Bellamy when Monty gives the signal.” 

“Okay.” She murmurs, squeezing back at her wrist with equal force. “Thanks, Raven.”

Wiggling out of her grip, she waves her off nonchalantly. “It’s no big deal.” Still, it’s impossible to miss the way she’s dithering at the lip of the step, her expression apprehensive. Then, as if bracing herself, she asks, “We’ll see each other again, though. Right?” 

She can’t help her laugh at that. “I’ll come visit you at Luna’s, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Good,” Raven grins, starting down the stairs. “And make sure you bring Blake with you!”

“Only if he promises not to kill Roan!” she calls out, throwing another pile of clothes into the bag. 

It takes another fifteen minutes to gather up the rest of his valuables; three to untack the yellowing map he has pinned up over his wall. The small pin pushed through the faded words of _Arkadia_ bounces off her toe, lands somewhere under the vicinity of his desk. The rest of the map remains perfectly intact, so she rolls it up carefully before stowing it into the bag. 

All that’s left is his jacket, so she grabs at it, sliding her arms through the holes. It smells faintly of mint and gunpowder and soap— of _Bellamy_ , and it envelopes her with a strange kind of calm as she fastens her cloak on over it with two minutes to spare. 

His room feels strangely bare after, despite the fact that it’s still filled with most of his clutter. 

She blinks, shouldering the bag higher against her arm. It’s not her sorrow to bear— not _her_ home that she’s leaving behind, but it still weighs at her anyway. Bellamy had built this place from nothing, and for a while, it had been all he had. 

“Goodbye.” She whispers, before easing the door shut behind her. The drawing of the Arkadian skyline he stole from her all those weeks ago flutters faintly at the movement, settling back against the wall. 

+

Clarke’s making her way across the square when the first set of fireworks explodes overhead; the colors pale under the blazing afternoon sun. 

_The signal._ Grimacing, she pushes further into the crowd, making sure to keep her face well-hidden in the protective confines of her hood. The guard is out full-force today— striking in their red and gold uniforms, and lined up along the edges of the square. A quick glance around puts their numbers at twenty. 

Carefully, she lowers her gaze back down, planting her feet firmly with each step to keep from getting swept up in the crowd. The flood of bodies trickling into the square isn’t surprising at all, considering how this was the first public execution Arkadia has had in awhile. 

And right in the square, too. In what was once considered neutral territory. If anything, the message Kane was trying to send out was clear: _No one was safe._

The crowd begins to thin as she approaches the middle of the square, the gallows rising into view. Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of it; the motion involuntary despite the fact that she had steeled herself for this since Bellamy was taken. 

In a matter of minutes, he’ll be walking up the steps. Face impassive as they read his charges out loud. Noose fitting around his neck. 

The thought of it is enough to make her knees go weak. 

Taking a deep breath, she digs her nails into the skin of her palm, the jolt of pain forcing her back into focus. Another series of booms sound overhead— this time, closer than before, and she thinks she hears the guard closest to her emit a muttered swear. 

“Damn fireworks,” he grumbles, nudging at his companion. “They’ve been setting those off all day.” 

“What for?” 

“It’s coming from Mecha. They’re claiming that it’s in celebration of silvertongue being caught, but everyone else is saying that it’s a sendoff for their boss.” He snorts. Then, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “Everyone knows that Mecha is a Skaikru hideout anyway. We just don’t have evidence that ties it back to them.” 

The other guard makes a noise of assent at that. “Kane says it’s all just a matter of time, at this point. We start with Blake. Then we bring the whole system down.” 

It takes almost all of her willpower to keep from sniggering out loud at that. 

She edges away instead, blending further into the crowd before tapping at the device by her ear. “Monty, what’s your status?” 

There’s a beat before his voice fills her ear. “In position. Nate?” 

“Ready.” Miller says, brisk. “Raven?”

“I have fifteen pounds worth of explosives and smoke grenades on me. What do _you_ think?”

She has to bite back a small, involuntary smile at that. “All clear. Raven, remember to set them off only when—”

The sudden surge in voices makes her look up, the words dying in her throat at the procession making their way through the crowd. 

Kane, surrounded by his own guards, leading a hooded figure towards the middle of the square.

The person is barely discernable with the thick ring of bodies obscuring them, but she’d recognize his walk anywhere. Insolent. Stubborn. Evident in the drag of his feet and the tense set of her muscles. She can’t help the choked noise that escapes at the thought of it, and she forces the rest of her tears back before anyone else can notice.

There’s a crackle of static by her ear, then, Raven’s voice coming into focus, “It’s too early. They’re— _Clarke_. They’re ahead of schedule.”

“Move our timeline forward, then.” 

“I’m not sure if the smoke bombs will deploy at time,” she hisses, her voice gaining in pitch, “and if it doesn’t, you and Bellamy will be out in the _clear_ —”

“I’ll think of something.” She cuts in, her gaze fixed on the figures ascending the podium. 

A guard leads the figure out into the open, Kane tapping at the microphone. Hands curl around the bag, poised to yank. Her breath catches in her throat once more—

The bag comes off, and there he is. 

Bellamy ducks his head, the motion instinctive, squinting in the blinding sunlight before casting his gaze over the crowd. Confused, but unharmed, from what she can tell, and the relief that rushes through her threatens to undo her on the spot. 

Kane is saying something, but it’s too hard to make out the words when she’s looking at him, tracking his every move. His eyes flicker with something akin to fear for a half a second, his expression shuttering away into one of faint amusement in the next— a valiant attempt at bravery. 

She straightens then, sending out a silent plea for Bellamy to hold on. If he knew anything about her, it was that she never went back on a promise. And Clarke Griffin was damn well going to deliver. 

+

It’s hard to remember that she has a schedule— and a plan— to keep to when he’s standing right there. Right within reach, after days and _days_ of agonizing and worrying over his safety. 

Still, Clarke manages to resist, though she always finds her gaze wandering back to him in the end. 

(“It has everything to do with gravity,” he once told her, when they were both hovering in the space between sleep and wakefulness, “yours and mine.” They were both a little tipsy that night, drunk off their success and the pilfered vodka, “Some things just happen to be drawn to each other more than others,” he had murmured, the words clumsy falling off his tongue, “we just happen to be it.”

She had laughed, then teased him about gravity being universal; about him being a _romantic,_ and he had scowled and kissed her hard, as if he could make her forget just like that. _Idiot._ )

He stays mostly quiet throughout the proceedings, though she can’t help but notice the hint of a smile playing at his lips at the mention of his track record. Kane’s going down a _list_ that’s a mile long, for Christ’s sake. It helps buy them time, at least, though she can’t help but feel a little annoyed at how much he’s clearly _savoring_ —

“We’re going to be here for a while if you’re planning on going through every single one of my charges,” Bellamy says suddenly, his voice raspy from what must have been days of disuse. The smile on his face is mocking when he adds, “May I suggest splitting the list? You can take half, and the Chancellor can take the other.”

She bites back a groan at Kane’s sputter, the rest of his words drowned out by the rise of voices and barely muffled laughter. ( _Aggravating_ his executioner, of all people. She’s going to kill him the _second_ he’s out of those chains.)

“The chancellor is dealing with more important matters,” he says stiffly, folding the sheets into quarters. “But if you would like to speed up the process, by all means, Mr. Blake. I’d be happy to accommodate you.” 

“And I didn’t even have to say please.” Bellamy says, dry. “Shall we get on with it?” 

Raven gives a vicious swear in her ear at that. “You have to _stall_ them!”

“How?” she hisses back, feet already moving towards him despite herself, “I’m out in the open!” 

“You’re the one who said you’d think of something!”

“That was _before_ I remembered that my boyfriend is a self-loathing, self-sacrificing jerkface with a death wish,” she mutters, shouldering past the last of the stragglers with a front-row view. The movement earns her a suspicious side-eye from one of the guards, and she drops her face back down to the ground, pulse pounding frantically in her ears. “I think— okay, I might have something.” 

“ _Clarke_ —”

She lunges, grabbing at his gun. The motion sends the guard sprawling, a shot going off, and she registers his cry of alarm before the other guards begin to converge. Swearing, her fingers curl around the barrel, yanking it free from the guard’s grasp. Then, undoing the safety, she takes her shot. 

The bullet slices through the rope, and it all dissolves into chaos at once.

Someone grabs at her from behind, and she manages to lodge an elbow into her assailant’s ribs before wriggling free, tumbling to the ground gracelessly and rolling out of the way. A bullet zips past her, missing her by mere _inches,_ and she scrambles back to her feet, pulling her knife free—

Just as another set of fireworks explodes before them, dangerously close and spitting showers of sparks. _Second signal._

Someone gives an alarmed shout, the crowd scattering in response, and she barely has time to shove her mask on before smoke begins to pour into the square, surrounding them in fog. 

Sheathing her knife, she breaks into a sprint then, up the podium and across the stage, barreling through the wave of guards, hacking coughs wracking their forms. _Five feet away. Two feet._

Then he’s before her, and she’s slipping the mask over his face, her fingers curling against his forearm and tugging, “Move!”

He obliges, staggering after her as she takes a running leap off the podium, landing heavily next to her. A groan escapes him at that, and she’s on him once more, grabbing at his sleeve and pulling him forward, shoving past the barricades and back towards the streets.

“Corner of 72nd street,” she instructs, pumping her arms, “ _faster_.” 

“It’s difficult considering how my hands are still _chained,_ ” he retorts, his voice distorted behind the mask. “Who—”

She veers sharply to the left, their footsteps pounding in tandem as he follows. Distantly, she can make out the sound of voices, of people—

“Keep your sights on me.” She tells him, just as they merge flawlessly into the crowd. 

The streets are filled with people, about a hundred or so of them dressed in cloaks and Skaikru masks, cheering and shouting and laughing. More explosions go off overhead, shaking the ground, and she thinks she hears the familiar whistle of the guards cutting through the noise, yelled instructions for them to _clear the path_ —

Mecha’s familiar signboard comes into view, and she swoops at it, grabbing at the cloak stashed there by Raven. Then, whirling around, she sweeps the cloak over Bellamy’s shoulders, pulling the hood over his head. “Hands out.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“When someone tells you to do something, just do it, you _idiot_.” A voice mutters, and she steps out of the way as the figure pushes forward, gloved hands already reaching for Bellamy’s chains. 

A beat, his eyes widening almost comically, “Miller?” 

“No, it’s God.” He snorts, withering. “Did prison make you stupid, Blake?” 

“I’m— where’s—” 

The chains give, tumbling to the ground, and she kicks them behind a flowerpot. “No time.” She says, pulling Raven’s grappling hook free from her belt. “Hold on to me.” 

His arms slide around her waist, hesitant, and she thinks she hears him breathe out a muttered _wait_ before the hook catches, the cord jerking in her grip as they’re yanked upwards, the momentum propelling them up and onto the roof of the nearby building.

He tumbles free, slamming against the ground, _hard._ She follows, barely managing to tuck herself into a roll before coming to a stop. 

Wincing, she pulls herself to her feet, reaching forward to slide the grappling hook free and retract the cord. “Miller should be sending out the decoys right about now. When we get the signal, we _move._ The guards will be heading towards Main Street, leaving us a clear path towards the—” 

“Stop,” he rasps out, breathing hard. His mask is gone, dangling loosely from his fingers instead. “Who— you’re—”

It occurs to her then that she must be pretty unrecognizable, with her hood up and the mask warping her voice. The hope in his eyes is unmistakable, though, his hands trembling slightly as he reaches for hood; movements slow enough for her to step away. 

“Someone who loves you.” She manages, and she thinks she makes out his strangled laugh before he’s pulling her mask free, her hood falling back as his lips descends on hers.

She throws her arms around him, kissing him back with equal fervor, clinging onto him to keep him from going too far. He gives another choked laugh at that, murmuring a litany of _I love yous_ against her lips before pulling away carefully, pressing their foreheads together. “You came back for me.”

The wonder in his voice makes her ache, somehow. She closes her eyes then, pressing a kiss against the jut of his shoulder. Tells him the single, undeniable truth when it comes to him, “I’ll always come for you.” 

+

The harbor is deserted by the time they make their way over, towards the lone vessel docked in the distance. 

“The Argent,” Bellamy reads, sounding distinctly amused. “I’ll admit, that’s pretty clever.”

She can’t help her laugh at that, reaching over to link their fingers together before boarding the boat. “Yeah, I convinced them to go for subtlety. They wanted to plaster the hull with _silvertongue_ , otherwise.” 

He manages a wry smile. “I think I’d prefer if I never have to go by that name ever again.”

“I know,” she murmurs, lifting their intertwined hands so she could press a kiss against his bruised knuckles. He sighs into the touch, settles down into the seat next to hers as she preps at the boat one-handed.

“I should really let you do your job.” 

“I’ll cheerfully chop off your arm right now if you let go of me,” she comments, mild. That pulls a grin from him, at least, and she breathes a sigh of relief at the start of the engine; unearthing the map from his room as the final touch and pinning it down with several coins. “Alright, Captain. Where to, now?” 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing at her palm. “I don’t know,” he admits, winding his free hand in her hair. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how to stop touching her, now that he’s able to again, “I’ve never— I’ve never had the freedom to just _go,_ you know? Never had the freedom to just be _._ It’s a little daunting.”

“We could leave it up to chance.” She says, nuzzling into the skin of his neck. “Close our eyes, and point to a random part of the map.” 

“Says the person who probably memorized maps for _fun_ as a kid,” he teases, breaking into laughter when she slugs him in the ribs. “Oh, come on. I _know_ you did.” 

“Only because I finished all my encyclopedias.” 

“And you call _me_ the nerd,” he says, fond, reaching over to pluck at one of the coins, sliding it through his fingers in a blur of motion; the glint of metal disappearing and appearing in a split second. 

She raises a brow over at him. “Did Miller teach you that?” 

“No, I did.” Bellamy murmurs, dropping it into her palm. “Sleight of hand. One of the first things I learned, when I came to Arkadia.”

“A party trick?” 

“A way to win.” He says, reaching over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Then, so softly she has to strain to hear him, “I don’t think I’ll need it, wherever we’re going.”

Clarke gives a quiet laugh at that, fingers idly twirling the coin between her fingers as she leans back, resting her head against his shoulder. “I hope not.”

“Good.” He says, firm. Then, tilting his chin towards the coin, “You could spin it, you know. And we’ll go to wherever it lands.”

She smiles, pecks one last kiss against his cheek before sitting up. “Hope you’ll still feel the same way if it lands on somewhere like _Ice Nation_ territory.”

He shrugs. “I’m not worried.” 

“At all?” 

He meets her gaze levelly. Unwavering. “I’m with you,” he tells her, soft. “Whatever it is, whatever gets thrown our way— as long as we’re together, we can handle it. I’m with you, Clarke. All the way.”

Her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t brush them away. Not yet. She kisses him, instead, long and lingering and everything she doesn’t know how to put into the words. Everything that she’ll be able to tell him with the time that they have; the time that they earned.

“All the way,” she echoes, balancing the coin on its edge. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sends it spinning; a arc of silver trailing across the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnddd we're done! I really hoped you like this series guys, and leave me a comment/kudos if you did.

**Author's Note:**

> Feed your local starving fic writer by leaving kudos and comments if you liked it!


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